Acts of Vengeance
by Praxidicae
Summary: Agent Romanov is called to S.H.I.E.L.D after an extended absence. There she learns of 2 prison breaks, the 1st at the Raft in NY harbor and the second at the Vault in the Rocky Mountains. In the case of the Raft, 3 notable survivors were seen, including 2 witnesses who are oddly reluctant to speak. The 3rd is a mysterious but powerful sorcerer who seems to have a deadly agenda.
1. Prologue: The Raft

**~~Acts of Vengeance~~**

When I compare

What I have lost with what I have gained,

What I have missed with what attained,

Little room do I find for pride.

I am aware

How many days have been idly spent;

How like an arrow the good intent

Has fallen short or been turned aside.

But who shall dare

To measure loss and gain in this wise?

Defeat may be victory in disguise;

The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, _Loss and Gain_

Prologue: The Raft

The scene before him was chaos. He couldn't help but venture the tiniest smirk of admiration, imperceptible to most of those present as they were swept up in the mayhem before them. Through the barely open position of the massive doors, he and his guards could now plainly observe what they had been able to hear as soon as they breached the interior of the facility: there were approximately 100 unruly prisoners loose and gathered in the dining hall, the only area of the prison which allowed for enough uninterrupted space for them all to congregate. Peppered among the rampaging inmates were other creatures, both humanoid and not, presumably here by the same invitation as he was-although, perhaps their presence had been requested less...forcefully, he thought with a dismissive sneer. In all, the celebrants numbered around 400, their hoots and whooping coupled with the physical destruction of the surrounding furnishings and minor infrastructure forming a deep, slow thrum of noise which radiated through the walls like a beating heart.

At the head of the room, a makeshift stage had been erected from the few surviving dining tables, along with various other materials at hand in the sparsely decorated interior. Onto this tenuous surface stepped the supremely confident figure of their host, a sight which served only to further incite the unbridled rage and ecstasy of those closed within the walls that barely contained them. He was lithe and tall by human standards, and he was swathed in the gray, shapeless uniform that marked him as one of the recently incarcerated among their ranks. He drank in their attention like a life-giving draught, seeming to inhale their enthusiasm as he beamed at them, hands outstretched as if welcoming them to an opulent feast of his own design. The step was familiar, the observer realized, as the speaker crossed as closely to the front of the admiring throng as he could pass while still remaining on his swiftly-cobbled elevation. The unbroken alabaster of his skin betrayed his superhuman origins, and it reflected the fluorescent lighting with a dead sheen. The sharp, metallic extensions at the tips of his fingers were new, however. It made him more intimidating than he had been when last the watcher had known him, less human than he had ever been- although he had only been barely that in the first place.

The host used his hands to indicate he wished for silence in which to address them, and, after a lingering moment, the crowd complied. He spoke a few rapid words just loud enough to be heard by all those in the room, and a handful of their number responded zealously. Most of those present did not comprehend the alien language, and so they merely waited, soundlessly. From the stage left corner of the table came the translation for the crowd: "Welcome, free beings of all origins!" These words resulted in the anticipated rapturous applause. Again, the host motioned for silence, which he grudgingly received. Outside the room, the observer felt one of his escorts tighten the feverish grip on his bicep, clearly in anticipation of their approaching entrance.

The pale figure extended his arms again in the semblance of a warm greeting; however, the penetrating and unholy red of his eyes greatly reduced the softness of the gesture. There were more words, the language guttural but elegant, followed by the translation: "I have invited you here to fulfill a promise. Our Masters have sworn that there would be a Reckoning, when the forgotten and the enslaved would rise…" The translator paused as if he were being deeply affected by the words, his voice quivering with the weight of his swelling emotions. He was an odd creature himself, to be sure: he was fundamentally humanoid in nature, but his hide was so pink that he seemed to have been skinned, and his elongated face and sharply pointed nasal ridge made him appear decidedly rat-like. His fingernails were long and curved, sharpened until they had the perfect likeness of claws. He was also clad in the gray garb of the prison.

The pale man continued, as did the echoed interpretation: "Today they have struck the first blow in this conflict, freeing their brothers who were sentenced to waste eternally in this dungeon beneath the waters of Earth…" The rat-man paused to let the host continue, his gaze never wavering from its worshipful guise. "...and they have brought us, as restitution for our unjust incarceration…a mighty gift!" The pallid figure pointed to indicate the entrance behind him of a great hulking beast of a creature in similar dress, his enormous hands cradling an object covered in a plain, white cloth, his grasp as gentle as if he held the body of a sleeping child. His height was nearly twice that of the host-even from his perch on the table he had to look up to the man-like beast-and the width of the creature was such that those assembled needed to step back several paces to accommodate his girth. Again, this being was well known to the one who was waiting at the door.

"Juggernaut…" he said wistfully, not realizing that he had spoken out loud-albeit in a whisper-until his chaperones reacted with a reverential look. For all the theatrics about the notorious inmates who had been freed from their incarceration this day, those presumed to be dangerous to the residents of this feeble planet, he was the only one among them who was of any true threat. How had they managed to contain him in this place for so long? It was almost laughable to think that S.H.I.E.L.D. could have restrained a being of that strength and enormity...surely they were working with technologies far beyond what they had dared reveal to their precious team of Avengers. He chuckled gently to himself at the thought.

"A gift...of great power!" the disparate voices continued in their own languages. "Power that we can wield to punish those who have sought to unjustly punish _us_ !"

As if on cue, the lumbering giant removed the covering from the item in his ample palms, revealing the object to the watchful crowd. The simultaneous intake of breath from all those assembled seemed to extract all the air from the room. There were murmurs among them in many languages, both alien and terrestrial, but one phrase was predominant above all: "the Cube…"

The hand on his upper arm dug noticeably into his flesh. Despite the discomfort, the watching figure formed a leering smile.

The awed murmurings of the crowd continued for several minutes, until louder exclamations began to dominate, their tone dissenting. Finally, a voice called out clearly above the throng: "But is it not useless to us? None of us can control it!"

The pale figure looked greatly pleased by this response, his lips pulling back into a cruel but jovial smile. The action resulted in a baring of his metal, spiked teeth, an effect that was unsettling at the least. The throng had grown attentively silent, curiously awaiting his response. His mysterious words hung in the air for a weighted moment as the rat-man had become so entranced by the powerful object that he had ceased to interpret them. He shook off his stupor, and said, "This is true: there is no one _now_ among us who can wield it!" The host's ghostly claws hovered over the ethereal blue of the cube, as if he much desired to touch it but would never dare dream himself to be worthy of the privilege. "There is _one_ who can!" he finished, his eyes locked on the glowing object and glazed with unfettered lust.

There was a sharp, insistent nudge just below the waiting man's shoulder blade, an unmistakable prompt that this was his time of his entry. Two of the creatures who accompanied him stepped forward to heave open the large metal doors through which they had been observing, a third tugged him roughly forward by the chains which bound his wrists, and the fourth remained steadfastly beside him, pinching his shoulder callously between his thick fingers with more force than was plainly necessary. When he did not immediately start moving forward, the creature at his side landed a sharp blow to the center of his back, propelling him forward without argument. The fettered man would not give his guards the satisfaction of seeing him stumble, however, and he caught his step gracefully, advancing with his posture erect and seemingly composed.

All heads turned to mark his approach, a reverent hush falling over the audience once again. Each being regarded him carefully, their eyes wandering over his form and brazenly studying every detail to deduce his identity. The prisoner felt exposed before them with so many roaming gazes falling upon him in his restrained state, probing him for all of his secrets. Fortunately, the cowl of his thick cloak obscured his face and mercifully restricted him from having to meet any of their looks directly. _Let them be tormented for a while longer_, he thought with a clandestine sneer. _Perhaps it's better if they don't know what they're actually in for_.

When the 'guest' and his escort reached the foot of the stage, the pale man knelt to greet him. The host's smile was predatory, and he brought one slender digit to rest upon the chained man's face, the pointed metal scraping just lightly enough to keep from drawing blood. "Welcome, Kaal," he whispered intimately in his native tongue. "It has been too long. Still, your fortunes haven't changed much…" He eyed the shackles that bound the prisoner's hands with a wicked gleam, his lips parting into a depraved grin which revealed how much he was enjoying the other man's current position. The expression bared nearly every one of his glinting, unnatural teeth. The hooded figure understood every word that the had been purred directly into his face, but he did not shift a single muscle of his countenance in response.

"This is Kaal!" the pale man announced, spreading his arms wide, one pointing to the indicated personage and the other to the frenzied crowd at his feet. When he spoke this time, it was in the English language of Earth, which most among them could comprehend. The translation changed to the tongue of the pallid one's birth, the rat man struggling only minimally with the alien tongue. "A...friend..." Their host choked on the word like the foul lie that it was. "We knew each other from a previous incarceration. Far from here…" His words trailed off, and he paused, lost in a trance-like state, his eyes hardening like dull steel at the memories.

Beneath the cowl, Kaal let a genuine smile play upon his lips. His mind also teased out a few images of the mutual time they had shared in that place, but the awful gravity of the thoughts allowed them to only play briefly in his consciousness. Yet their time there together had been limited, as the speaker had been released after a minimal sentence. The true nature of that place had barely revealed itself to the pale man, and still the memories brought his bravado to a grinding halt. Kaal chuckled, his shoulders swaying gently. If he only knew...truly _knew_.. This being was not really _from_ that place-not _shaped _by it. The hooded figure had tasted that place, felt it in the ache of his bones and the bile in his throat. He had let it own him, encircle him with its anguish and let it press him to his very core. He _knew _it as surely as he knew himself, every muscle and sinew sewn into his very soul. Its torment had caressed every inch of his skin like a scorned lover and had claimed him over and over in that endless blackness until his soul was laid cruelly bare. The horrific sights and smells-the exquisite suffering-of that place would be folded into the pleats his burial shroud.

This was going to be too, too satisfying.

"Kaal is a sorcerer...a mage of much repute in certain corners of the universe." The pale man had shrugged off the dark remembrances and had found his rhythm again, crossing the precarious surface with endless grace. "He has _intimate _knowledge of the Tesseract, and he can wield it -not just as a power source, but as a weapon!" The elated shrieks of the crowd were more forceful now, the walls nearly shuddering with their electric chorus. "He will be the bearer of our retribution!" finished the host, his vile mien turning again upon the bound man. His outstretched arm reached towards him tauntingly, the fingers curling in the guise of a mocking caress. "And all because I asked him soooo nicely," he finished, the smile on his lips widening with derision. The throng responded with pervasive laughter.

Kaal gave a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgement, his countenance straining to contain the resentment he longed to convey. The manacles on his wrists rubbed rudely at his skin, the itch just enough to remind him of their galling presence. _Just minutes more...soon, so soon…_

"Kaal, my friend," the pale man requested. "Would you do us the honor…?"

"It would be my pleasure," the sorcerer answered flawlessly in the alien tongue. He paused, considering his bound hands. "If you would be so kind…" He held them up to the creature who towered above him, his eyes fraudulent in their imploring.

The host clicked his tongue reproachfully. "Now, now," he scolded softly. "You don't expect me to _free_ you, do you?" He chortled to himself. "You take me for a fool, my friend." He knelt again, taking the line of the prisoner's jaw gently but teasingly in his grasp. "I like you just like this..." he hissed tauntingly into the shell of his ear. "Restrained," he finished gloatingly.

The captive twisted his face until his skin slipped from between the pale man's fingers; it was his final show of defiance. "As you wish," he whispered in surrender. He took two steps toward the Cube, his hands slightly aloft and unfolding as much as his manacles would allow. He reached out to it, bowing his head and crossing in front of the spectral figure who still knelt on the stage. Kaal kept his stride long and confident to show his audience that he was not daunted by their presence but rather a threat to even a gathering of their number and composition. Let them wonder at what the true measure of his abilities might be, he thought as he neared the object of his attention. _Let them be amazed . . . _

At least at first.

From the edge of his vision, he caught the presence of one of his erstwhile guardians, a thick, sharp-edged sword gripped steadily in his hands. It was finely honed and hefty enough to suit his purpose, he was certain. The creature who held it was somewhat reptilian with a bipedal frame, its biceps broad with strength but his eyes dull for want of a great intellect. This was good, Kaal agreed to himself; he measured the distance between himself and the blade with dizzying speed as he continued to approach his luminous goal with a proud gait. As he drew close to the Cube, the surface began to darken and become disturbed, swirling with an ominous energy. A few crackling bands of light danced along the outer verge of the Tesseract, and the static pulses it produced released a noticeable scent of electricity which raced like adrenaline through the onlookers.

As he continued to extend his reach towards the turbulent face of the Cube, he studied the etched surface of his bonds, confirming the words of the spell that were written there. It was a powerful charm, intended to restrain his ability to channel his magic for purposes other than the minor manipulation of physical objects of power. Its sophistication made him briefly consider who had conjured it for them, as the intricacy of it betrayed a vast capacity for the craft. However, it possessed a fatal flaw that was overtly present to a master of the art such as himself: the runes were imprinted across the links of the chain between his fetters, and the spell must remain entirely intact to retain its sway over him. He was intended only to give them a show, a dazzling but impotent demonstration of the cosmic havoc that was to come. If it was a show they wanted, then it was a show he could provide, and gladly so. He did love to be accommodating.

The anticipation made his lips curl in fiendish glee.

It took mere seconds for him to survey his surroundings for what he required, and he did so with furtive glances, undetected by those who sought to control him. It was all coming together so perfectly, just exquisitely so. He focused his strength on the heart of the object, the inner point from where it drew the most catastrophic of its faculties, and it harkened to his extended grasp but could not yet answer its call, the magic at his wrists maddeningly subduing it. Its insides roiled with the potential it longed to unleash, covering its surface with an even more restless force, the sparks roping along its face intensifying. A pregnant hush fell over the gathering, with all eyes bent toward the surging energy source.

_Now…_

It would all need to happen in a seamless instant, he knew, before the muscle in the room could move against him in an organized fashion. His advantage would not be in strength of force, but rather in his swiftness coupled with the element of surprise, an asset which lasted only seconds. With the attention of his wardens trained so heavily on the Cube, they did not notice when Kaal drew his right knee forward enough to gather some momentum. It then propelled backwards, his foot landing a blow squarely at the waist of the guard at his back, and the force caused it to keel clumsily to the floor. The robust staff that the creature had held in its grasp landed consummately across the crook created by the sorcerer's ankle in its still backwards position. He then propelled the rod swiftly in the air with a powerful upward stroke of his foot, and it landed splendidly in his waiting hands.

His bindings allowed just enough movement for him to maneuver the staff effectively as a weapon, and he immediately put it to use on the beasts who attended him, the blunt end finding the face of the one to his left and the side abruptly side-swiping the skull of the one on his right. As its body fell to the floor with a graceless thump, it unhanded the massive blade that Kaal required. He flung the staff at the pale man who was still gaping in disbelief at the bodies of the fallen guardsmen, and the blow caused him to stumble rearwards into the hulking form of the Juggernaut. Kaal quickly snatched up the sword, wedging the handle between his feet and bringing his wrists heavily down on either side of it, breaking the chain neatly in two. The entire ploy had been accomplished in just a few heartbeats, and yet the sorcerer knew that he must continue to be swift before the only true threat in the room began to stir.

With the saber now in his grip, he easily whirled on the remaining guard, severing his head from his shoulders before he could draw his holstered firearm. The first three attendants were now rising to their feet, shaking off the initial stupor of the sudden attack and replacing it with a palpable rage. _Quickly..._Kaal urged himself.._.no time to think. _He spun on each of them in quick succession, his motions with the blade so nimble that they appeared as a blurred onslaught with no corporeal force behind them. The trio of reptilians fell in a heap of dismembered limbs and cleaved torsos. He then instantly extended his free hand again towards the Tesseract, and this time it answered his beckoning with full strength. A low rumble began in its depths, quickly escalating to a deafening tremor that shook the ground below them all. The crowd fell hard to the surface beneath them, starting with those closest to the object and then rapidly billowing outwards from its source. As the wave subsided, there were only two beings still on their feet: the mage and the Juggernaut.

Keenly aware that he could not defeat this force with physical strength, the mage knew he had precious seconds to devise a plan. He had overcome scores of enemies-dozens at once, at times-with his agility alone, but he knew that this was a moment for both speed _and_ cunning. No sooner had they locked eyes from across the room than the Juggernaut burst forth, his monstrous arms moving like pistons at his sides. The mage had a split second to react, and he used it to his fullest advantage, driving the point of the solid blade he still carried into the concrete floor, planting a foot atop its firmly ensconced handle, and launching himself nimbly toward the oncoming foe. His foot caught the beast sideways across the temple, causing him to pause more in shock than pain. Kaal then dropped smoothly to the ground and slid across the floor between the giant's broadly spread legs. Rising instantly to his feet, he extended a hand to grasp the Cube which was now tantalizingly within reach, and his grip closed upon the top face of the object...just as an ashen, spectral hand fell upon his own.

The pale man's visage drew to within an inch of his. "I'm disappointed, Kaal," he hissed into the sorcerer's face. "I thought we understood one another." As the last of these words crossed his lips, his malicious smile widened further. The lights in the room flickered for only an instant...and then total darkness. He should have anticipated this move, thought the sorcerer. After all, this power was how he had earned his name among the nameless. _Blackout…_

The Tesseract still hummed with a faint glow, throwing an unearthly incandescence upon their profiles. From his peripheral vision, Kaal could only see a few precious lengths into the blackness, but his other senses were still sharp, and thankfully so. The approaching vibrations on the floor behind him betrayed the approach of his mammoth opponent, although it was apparent that the creature was trying to be stealthy. With his vast size, this was blatantly absurd, of course. Kaal called upon all of his discipline to remain motionless, continuing to maintain the gaze of the demon before him with confident disdain.

_Just a few more steps...be patient...be precise. _"Oh, but we do," Kaal purred seductively. "I understand you all too well…"

The mage could feel the brush of wind on his nape, the result of a huge hand being drawn back to strike at him. He had a split second to react, calling the power of the Tesseract to himself instantaneously. The Juggernaut saw his swing pass through the empty air and fall instead against the cheek of the pale man, sending him airborne. He landed against the far wall with an inelegant thump and then slid downwards into a motionless heap at its base. The lighting in the room immediately flickered back to life.

In that moment Kaal could have used the potential energy of the object to send himself anywhere in the universe. Yet he chose to materialize near the entranceway through which he had recently entered (shackled and heavily guarded, he reminded himself) with the Cube still poised gracefully in his open palm. It would not do to leave the throng like this. Not with so much left undone. . .

Juggernaut spun to face him, quickly recovering from the astonishment of his quarry's sudden evaporation. The sorcerer gave him a perilous glare, a visual warning that to charge at this juncture would be decidedly fatal. The leviathan responded with a move which was unprecedented in his destructive history: hesitation. The corners of Kaal's lips curled into the most ominous grin, and he elevated the Cube until it was more prominent in the giant's sight. _Follow me, and this is your fate, _the mage challenged him, his eyes crackling with an accusatory fire. _Let me go, and you may yet survive. _

Two more beats passed before the hulking man had made up his mind, and he lunged forward with renewed conviction, a threatening snarl escaping his lips with the sudden effort. There were few forces in the known universe which could halt his charge and hence Kaal had been trying to curtail this attack from the beginning. His options had suddenly been whittled down to one.

And, oh, he so desperately needed this to work.

Summoning the whole of his power from within, he instantly fed it into the Cube which responded with a blinding flare of light and energy. A second tremor, more violent than the first, shuddered through the floor, keeping the terrified onlookers in a state of stunned inaction. This convulsion paled, however, to the one which followed when the Juggernaut met the perimeter of an invisible barrier of force, and he slammed against it with a power that rippled through the exterior walls until their very foundations groaned with the weight of it. The giant then took three stumbling steps backwards before he crashed heavily to the ground, motionless. He was merely dazed, the sorcerer knew, and he was unsure if he was prepared to withstand another onslaught. The power he had used to awaken the Cube had drained his reserves to a worrisome level. Furthermore, the repeated shaking and pounding on the building structure was bound to have damaged it irreparably-not exactly a pleasant idea when there was thousands of gallons of seawater pressing in on all sides. It was time to take his bow and leave the crowd wanting more.

With a portion of what little magic that remained him, he teleported the Tesseract to a place of safety with a graceful flourish of his hands. From behind the impenetrable wall of energy, he could see the form of the pale man, seemingly recovered from the earlier blows he had taken. The only evidence was the lavender stain of a bruise blooming along his left temple and the blood seeping from his cracked lower lip. He strode confidently to the invisible barrier, baring his metal teeth in a silent challenge to his rival. His palm flattened against the wall, and he leaned towards the barrier with a look of consummate hatred adorning his cruel features. "Shouldn't you be running?" he murmured, relying on the sorcerer to perceive the words by reading his lips.

Kaal nodded, wordlessly. He spun on his heel, mustering all of his composure to contain his absolute exhaustion. As he breached the expansive doors at the exit, he turned again to the creature he had known as 'Blackout'. Knowing that his lips would not be very visible from this distance, the sorcerer projected the words into the head of the demon with ominous gravity. "_I can run . . ._ " he gloated, then paused to let one final, percipient grin cross his mouth. "_How well can you swim?" _

The pale man's glare melted quickly from arrogance to fear as the words settled upon him. As if on cue, the first creak of complaint became audible from the distressed walls around them, and a baleful crack began to open in the concrete behind him. Blackout's eyes widened in a flicker of panic, which was promptly replaced with a growl of pure rage. His fist met the unseen barrier with a force that was sure to have fractured even his superhuman bones. Kaal did not linger to see the water breach the interior, but he could hear the subsequent rush of the waves at his back as he threw the doors closed in his wake.


	2. Part I: Denial Chapter 1

~~ Part I: ~~

Denial

Truly it is evil to be full of faults, but it is a still greater evil to be full of them, and to be unwilling to recognize them. - Blaise Pascal

-1-

"Ma'am?" the barista asked again. "Are you ready to order?"

She was ready… of course she was. She had spent the last 15 minutes hovering inconspicuously in the back of the cafe, casting stealthy glances at the menu board from behind the opaque lenses of her oversized sunglasses in order to decipher the inscrutable lexicon it displayed. She had committed a lengthy string of adjectives to memory by mimicking the seemingly endless line of middle-class customers before she stepped up to the register. She could speak seven languages and infiltrate a world-class security system with just a laptop, a few lines of code, and a precious few minutes in which to type them. Therefore, she could order a simple cup of coffee in a hipster beverage franchise. She could do this.

"Tall…" she began, hesitating longer than she would ever admit. "No, grande...the bigger one…latte," she paused, only having reproduced less than half the adjectives she had intended to regurgitate. She was actually breaking a mild sweat; this had to be unprecedented. Then her pocket began to buzz with the unmistakable flurry of an incoming call. And not the personal phone-the 'International Intrigue and Dire Diplomatic Emergency' phone.

Oddly, she was mildly relieved.

"Do you want any syrup in that?" the perky twenty-something girl behind the counter chirped.

"Sure," she replied flippantly, reaching for the phone in the inner pocket of her brown suede jacket.

"What kind?"

What kinds of syrup were there? Surely she wasn't talking about...maple? The phone was continuing its incessant vibrations in her hand, and the screen displayed the urgency of the matter with the name of the caller: 'Mom,' which was code not for the being that bore her, but the entity that owned her. She had to take this, no question.

"Whatever kind you think would be great," she barked while trying to sound accommodating. The barista shot back a look which clearly conveyed annoyance so she quickly ran back through the list of words she had meant to spout out from the beginning. "Hazelnut," she concluded, and this seemed to please her inquisitor so she backed it with a confident smile. "I have to take this," she whispered apologetically while indicating the wildly resonating device in her hand. "It's my mom." The clear-skinned girl behind the counter nodded sympathetically.

She touched 'answer' and then cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder while digging into the depths of her purse for her wallet. She had been out of the "real" world for so long, it seemed, that even mundane tasks like this felt awkward to her. "Hey….what's up?" she asked casually, as if she wasn't one-hundred percent certain that she was going to hear those six little words in response.

"We need you to come in."

"Of course. I'm just getting some coffee." She handed the barista a five dollar bill.

"We know where you are. There is a car en route to your location."

She smiled to herself as she recognized the owner of the matter-of-fact voice in her ear. The gesture turned to a definite frown as the woman behind the counter handed her back just a few coins. "Seriously?" she mumbled as she moved to the other end of the counter.

"You sound disappointed."

"It's not that...it's just…" she was now wrestling with putting her change back into the wallet and then the wallet back into her bag with the phone still perched on her shoulder. "...when did coffee get so damned expensive? It's practically just bitter water."

"Did you get a latte?" the voice continued in a monotone, all business.

"Yes, which is just bitter water with foamed milk."

"Have you tasted it yet?"

"Well, no," she admitted, slinging her purse towards her back and out of the way. How do women deal with carrying these cumbersome things all the time, anyway?

"It's heaven in a cardboard sleeve."

"You want me to bring you one, don't you?" she smirked.

"Grande, vanilla, skinny with an extra shot," he rattled off with an ease that she envied.

"Sure, anything for you. I missed you," she replied, grabbing her beverage and heading back to the far side of the counter. "I'll see you in a few." She ended the call and shrugged at the barista. "My mom wants a cup," she explained, then spouted off the order with more confidence this time.

"Okay. What's your mom's name?" the lady asked good-naturedly, a Sharpie poised to scribble the moniker on the surface of the cup.

"Phil," she stated, choosing to ignore the raised eyebrow she received in return.

*. * *. *

"You don't look happy to see me, Agent Coulson," she deadpanned, handing him the promised latte.

"Not _un_happy, Agent Romanov," he answered. "After all, you brought me heaven." He removed the lid in order to inhale the heady aroma. "I just figured you would be more … shocked to hear from me." He took a tentative sip, swishing the contents with reverence as if tasting a well-aged wine.

"Are you kidding, Coulson? No one has the decency to stay dead around this place." She gave him a knowing glance from under her shades. "I had a suspicion you were too committed to the agency to let a little thing like death get in the way of your work." She took a seat at one of the nearby workspaces-it was all smooth, clean edges and cutting-edge technology. Despite the recent upheaval, it was all still so...so S.H.I.E.L.D. She could not have felt more at home. "Does this mean I'm active again?" she offered hopefully.

"Yes, Agent Romanov-" (he paused for another obscenely satisfying drink) -"I'm afraid it does."

"Good." Natasha began to pull items from her oversized purse: extra shades, her remaining paper money, some reloadable toll cards for the subway . "Then throw this thing in the nearest river, would you?" She pitched the bag and its remaining contents at one of the agents who had escorted her in. She turned back to Phil. "I'm having a little trouble blending in with the regulars," she explained unashamedly.

"You will find that your non-civilian skillset is still valued here," Agent Coulson assured her. "In fact, we could use your powers of interrogation right now, if you would oblige us." He motioned towards the closed metal door at his back. "We've had these two on ice for about seventy-two hours now, and we can't get a word out of one..." He crossed over to the computer on the desk in front of her. "May I?"

"Sure," she replied. She pulled up the chair from a neighboring workstation to use as a footrest, and Coulson didn't even twitch when she propped her high-heeled boots noisily onto it.

He typed furiously for about twenty seconds and then turned the monitor to fully face her. "The other one is….well, he's just...pitiful, frankly," he finished. His tone did not portray any of the pity of which he spoke.

The screen showed two separate holding cells, each containing what was obviously a detainee with a lengthy backstory. One was so pale he was barely visible against the industrial white backdrop of the walls, and the other was off-pink and completely hairless with murine features. Romanov was instantly intrigued, and she stood and leaned over to study the subjects more carefully. This was not going to be a run-of-the-mill spy mission.

"Where did you find these two?" she inquired brusquely, crossing her arms as if to ward off the strangeness of what she was seeing. The last time she had to deal with such alien-looking creatures she had been helping to fend off a full-scale extraterrestrial invasion, and that was not ground she wanted to cover again anytime soon.

"New York Harbor, off Rikers Island," Coulson explained. "I should probably tell you, though, that there had been quite a bit of excitement in the area just prior to us fishing them out of the water." He turned and sat on the edge of the desktop, mirroring her cross-armed stance. "There was a prison riot...but not at Rikers." He paused and searched her features for some bit of recognition.

So he wanted to know how much she knew. "The Raft," she answered without pause. There was no reason to play ignorant with a fellow agent at this level. Only agents with the highest security clearance knew of the existence of this underwater prison for the most uncontainable of inmates-or those who were savvy enough to have snooped around in the S.H.I.E.L.D. databases without detection. Coulson was assuming (quite correctly) that she was one of the latter. This detention center was one of the agency's dirtier little secrets, as the methods of containment for such powerful beings often straddled the boundaries of both ethical and humane. "I'm going to need whatever details you have, you know that," she finished, hoping that he would glaze over her apparent knowledge of the unknowable.

"Then we should start with the prison riot," he continued without missing a beat. He executed a few more urgent keystrokes during which the two strange captives disappeared and were replaced by some grainy security footage that had been recorded from such a distance as to be nearly useless. "There was a riot that lasted nearly 18 hours. It began at about 0300 when the cell doors all opened simultaneously of their own accord. Even the solitary cells." His face became even more grave.

Natasha nodded, knowing that whomever-or whatever-was kept in solitary confinement in a place like the Raft must be unbelievably monstrous.

"The security cameras went offline at the same exact moment. We have had 48 hours to process the breach, and our best techs cannot even begin to determine how it was pulled off." He pressed a crooked finger to his upper lip in lingering disbelief. Meanwhile, the muddy footage continued to play on the screen behind him. Natasha raised her eyebrows in an obvious challenge. "Yeah, I know...the footage. Well, there was one camera hidden high up in a pillar of the dining room. It wasn't integrated into the main system because it wasn't one of ours: it had been placed there by Tony Stark several years ago in order to spy on us. The Raft was one of his little discoveries when he hacked our Helicarrier during the Avengers Initiative: Manhattan edition, and he was trying to prove that we were up to Abu Ghraib-style antics down there. We haven't determined how he managed to get it in, but he wasn't able to penetrate further than the cafeteria. Needless to say, he has never been able to prove a more grievous infraction than 'Meatless Mondays' so Amnesty International hasn't been very interested," he smirked.

"But Stark came clean after he found out what happened down there," she guessed.

"The power supply was nearly exhausted-and the position was terrible since the placement was done very much on-the-fly-but we were able to recover some equally terrible footage."

"Can we clean it up?" she queried, hopefully.

"We already have," he admitted.

"So, why even show it to me?" It was not a spiteful question, she was just trying to expedite the big reveal that she assumed was coming.

He suddenly faced the monitor and keyboard again, and she could not see exactly what he was up to. "You can vaguely see the figures of many persons gathered in the dining hall. They used it as a base for their riot. The strange thing is, you can see more inmates than there actually were in the facility." He stepped away to allow her to see the recording. He had forwarded it slightly until, sure enough, one could determine that there were a sea of bodies collected in the modest room. No details still, but there was a definite number of free-moving shadows which presumably each denoted a separate entity. "There were 87 inmates registered at the Raft. Last count was somewhere around 140 people in that room. The fire department would have had a conniption."

"What happened to the guards?" she asked, afraid of what the answer was likely to be.

"Most of them were not alive to begin with so the loss of actual life was not that great, thankfully. They were mostly robots-super high-tech androids, some of which were controlled remotely. It was too great a risk to have real guards in most cases. The Raft was designed as basically a metal tube descending straight into the depths of the water; there is essentially one way in and one way out of every level. In the case of a jailbreak, escape, or prison riot such as this, the inmates would be easy to contain...but it would be a deathtrap for any of the workers due to this same principle."

Natasha leaned back in her wheeled chair and crossed her arms crisply in front of her. "So where did all the others come from?"

Agent Coulson brought up another screen, this time with a surveillance film which was obviously taken outside the complex. The image showed the top of the Raft from a great distance above, probably taken from a hovering vehicle-likely a helicopter. "We couldn't risk sending any personnel into that environment so we kept watch on the exit in the hope that we could pick them up one-by-one as they tried to leave. But there were others who came in from outside…" He zoomed in on the darkened image so that she could discern several approaching vehicles, including several speedboats and similar craft which looked to be perhaps extraterrestrial. The time lapse displayed a range of several hours over which dozens of beings arrived via these various craft and disappeared into the depths of the institution beneath.

"We think they were invited. The prisoners and their, uh . . . _guests _assembled in the dining hall for several hours. But the party didn't really start until…" the senior agent brought up a close-up of a small craft arriving at the entrance ". . . these guys showed up."

There were three large, reptilian creatures and one tall, hooded figure whose face remained

hidden throughout their approach. It was apparent even from this distance that the hooded one was shackled and restrained by the other three.

"They took over a prison just to bring in a prisoner?" She could not begin to conclude where this could possibly be heading, but her patience was beginning to noticeably thin. She looked at him from under pursed eyebrows that clearly stated, '_wherever this is going, please get there faster.'_

Actually, the '_please_' was tenuous.

He switched back to the original footage. "You can see them enter the dining hall here," he indicated with his index finger. There were indeed four figures approaching what was presumably the front of the room, but they were just as smudged as the others had been.

"I'll take your word for that," she huffed impatiently.

A few moments passed during which nothing at all could be perceived from the indistinct image, and then a flurry of movement filled the screen followed by the pulsing of an eerie blue glow from near the center of the picture. Everything went black for several seconds (except for the blue glow which remained constant), and then the lighting came back just as suddenly as it had departed. After the passage of a few more moments, the lens cracked, and the picture ended. `

"Someone discovered the hidden camera," she ventured. Romanov was not certain of what she had seen, but there didn't seem to be much that could be derived from that poor quality video.

"Actually, the camera lens was shattered by what is being referred to as a 'seismic event.' "

"An earthquake?"

"It measured slightly on the Richter scale. However, the origin was traced to be inside the Raft."

At that, Natasha actually sat up and began to take interest. "_Inside_ the Raft?" What could possibly have the force to cause a disturbance that significant?

"What's more, it destabilized the structure of the building," Coulson continued. "The weight of the surrounding water collapsed the walls, and it filled the interior within just a few minutes."

"Survivors?"

"Your two new friends next door."

"Any others?"

"Two more that we know of, actually." The screen then displayed the mugshot of the largest (presumably) human male Natasha had ever laid eyes upon. "Cain Marko-a.k.a. 'Juggernaut,'" Coulson explained. "The most physically powerful inmate in the Raft. Virtually unstoppable, as his name implies. Fortunately for our unexpected guests, he was able to overcome the pressure of the incoming water after the walls gave way. As he swam out, he was carrying his two fellow prisoners, one in each arm. When we surprised him at the surface, however, he abandoned them and made a hasty exit, damaging two of our watercraft in the process. His current whereabouts are unknown."

"What about the other one?" Agent Romanov settled back into her chair and tried to relax her posture as much as possible.

"His _identity_ is unknown," Agent Coulson admitted, his tone almost apologetic. "We know he exists, but not his name or race or . . . even his species, really. The face is never visible."

Now the screen displayed more footage of the Raft taken from the camera hovering above. However, instead of showing more arrivals, this time there was someone coming out of the porthole on the surface of the structure. He flipped up the covering of the entrance and leapt out onto the deck with a feline grace. The camera zoomed in to focus on the individual just as floodlights lit up the scene from above. There was a steady wind blowing the garments of the departing figure, belying that the vehicle above was almost undoubtedly a helicopter; however, the subject did not acknowledge the light, noise, or breeze from the lingering chopper. What was immediately apparent to Natasha was that this was the hooded man from the earlier video: his face was still cloaked behind the cowl of fabric, and his wrists bore the fetters from before, only now the chains between them now hung limply from the manacles-severed. A voice, which she immediately recognized as Coulson's, began to address the person below.

"Attention, who-whoever you are," the voice declared. "You are attempting to escape a high-security correctional facility owned and operate by the United States Government." The words mingled with occasional static from the device which amplified the sound.

The hooded personage paused only briefly at the sound of the words and then began to approach the outer edge of the framework. The being was tall-an inch or two over six foot- with broad shoulders and no discernible hips. Almost certainly a male, Natasha confirmed. He moved forward until he stood on the very rim of the flat surface, the toes of his boots protruding out over the sea below but still facing away from the man that addressed him.

"Please put your hands in the air and turn slowly towards me. If you refuse, deadly force may be used against you," the non-visible Coulson continued through the bullhorn.

Natasha could not have been more shocked when the man below actually began to pivot back towards the voice addressing him, although his hands remained at his sides. He took great care to ensure that his visage remained obstructed by the cloth that surrounded it, moving torpidly with his chin tilted slightly downwards. He remained poised on the very lip of the surface, his heels now extending out over empty air in a stance that she recognized but could not instantly place. It was at least a 20 foot drop to the water below.

"Put your hands in the air immediately," the voice repeated with more force, "or you will be fired upon."

After this command, the figure swung his arms slightly backwards. Suddenly,Natasha recalled where she had seen such physical bearing before-Olympic coverage of platform diving. He bounced quickly up on his toes, vaulting himself up and outwards in the blink of an eye. His body folded until his hands touched his toes in an admirably solid pike position and then extended his legs up until his body was pointed downward, arms extended and hands first, forming a perfectly straight line from head-to-toe. He dropped into the water with almost no added disturbance to the surface whatsoever.

Natasha sat motionless, the pad of her thumb balanced tensely between her teeth.

"I would give him a solid eight, eight-point-five for execution, but he lacked somewhat in difficulty," Coulson chuckled. Natasha continued to stare vacantly at the computer monitor even though the video had cut out. "Obviously the Russian judge is harder to impress," he shrugged.

"He escaped," she stated coldly.

"Yes," was all that Agent Coulson could say in his defense.

"And we have no idea who he is?" she asked, trying not to sound accusing. She strongly suspected that she failed in her attempt.

"We have the video which provides us a vague description. More importantly, we have the two witnesses next door, one of which seems to have been closely acquainted with him." Coulson had again adopted his usual businesslike demeanor. "At least the other one-the rodent-looking guy-tells us that the really white guy knows him and that we should direct all our questioning to him."

"But he's not talking," Natasha replied. "The white one," she clarified.

"Decidedly not," he admitted, "which is where you come in, of course."

She nodded gravely. "What aren't you telling me?" she fired back, hoping to catch Coulson off-guard and get him to reveal something in a moment of weakness. To her undisclosed delight, the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly. She lowered her gaze to peer at him sternly through pinched eyebrows.

The senior agent raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright," he said, "I am holding back, but only a little." Her silent stare urged him on. "There was a second prison break, this one in Colorado. It was also a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility."

"The Vault," she snapped, biting into the flesh of her thumb until it was pale at the edges. "That's more than a little bit of intel, Coulson." The Vault was also a maximum security facility for superhuman inmates, except instead of extending down into a body of water it was burrowed deep into the heart of the Rocky Mountains. It was even more clandestine than the Raft.

"I know," he shrugged, "but I have my orders. I wasn't supposed to tell you more than you could guess. I'm thinking you can guess a bit more than than they thought you could." He took another generous drink of his latte to center himself; it was mostly lukewarm by now, but his face still revealed it to be more than satisfying.

"Is there footage from the Vault?" she asked, her posture tensing up as she awaited his answer.

"There is," he revealed. As she opened her mouth to request that he show it to her immediately, he raised a hand to stop her. "But I'm not allowed to show it to you, Agent Romanov. It's not directly related to your mission."

"Orders?" she challenged.

"Orders," he stated with finality.

"Can you at least fill me in on the basics?" she inquired with business-like sincerity. It was best to show them you were willing to play ball if you wanted any crumbs whatsoever. "I mean, these incidents have to be related, right?"

"I can tell you as much as I know, which is just the bare bones. I know that there was a security breach which mirrored the one at the Raft where the cameras and cell doors went offline allowing the inmates to leave their cells. There were several high-level enemies who managed to exit the facility prior to the arrival of the containment team . . ."

Natasha's eyebrows shot up in a clear demand for details.

" . . . which contained a couple of your fellow Avengers."

The eyebrows tightened.

"Clint and Tony did a bang-up job of containing the rest of them," he stated. "The video really is spectacular, and I _am _sorry that I am unable to show it to you," he reminded her.

"Who bailed?"

"Venom, most notably. The others were important, but not nearly as worrisome."

Natasha continued to sink teeth marks into her abused thumb. "Any other attempts?" she pried.

"Not that I have been made aware of." There was no deception in his eyes.

"So you want me to see if I can get the really white guy to talk?" she prodded.

"We've told him a little about you, including your background, in the hopes that he will relate to you. Greasing the skids, so to speak. The rest is up to you."

"Let's do this, then," she agreed. As she stood and moved toward the door which led to her assignment, she gave Agent Coulson one last deliberate glance. "And when I'm finished . . . _then_ we'll talk about how the Hell you're still alive."


	3. Part I: Denial Chapter 2

-2-

The pale man raised up abruptly at the sound of glass hitting the tabletop, the impact just in front of where he had lain his head. It had been hours-more than a day, perhaps-and they had kept him in this stark white room devoid of any colors or textures to stimulate his mind save for the slate gray surface before him. He raised his gaze to his newest interrogator, his glassy eyes fluttering with drowsy disdain. The sinfully clear tumbler of liquid did look quite inviting after all this time without reprieve, so much so that he nearly gave up every secret he had ever kept just to wet his lips with it. Yet at the last second, his pride came charging back to torment him and stilled his muscles when he would have moved to claim it. Instead, he tried to make his features as smooth as he could, betraying none of his thoughts or emotions, while pulling his lips taut to reveal his sharp, metallic teeth. The effect was meant to unnerve the woman who now sat purposefully across from him.

"This would be the part where you refuse the water, and then tell me to go to Hell," she quipped, bringing her legs to rest on the tabletop. Her arms remained tightly crossed in front of her chest, and she leaned back with an air of authority. "After that, I try to ask you some pertinent questions for an hour or so, during which you ignore me. Then you and I have a silent standoff for about a half hour, after which they take you back to your cell, and we start the process all over again tomorrow. After a few days of this, you're going to get real bored of the routine." Her face was nothing if not austere. "However," she finished as she nudged the glass closer to his elbow, "we could cut out the tedious part and go straight to where you tell me what I need to know."

The detainee surveyed her with a patronizing crack of a grin. She was obviously no threat, this human woman-unarmed, average stature, slight of build with some muscular definition, he surmised. He was intrigued by the lack of formal dress or a uniform which was unique to her among his other visitors. She was all confidence, too-her icy demeanor inferred that she fully meant to extract information from him. Yet she was also enticing in an odd way, with her form-fitting clothing that emphasized her curves and porcelain features accented with two full (scowling) lips. If she wasn't so severe, he might actually be in love.

"We might even be able to make a deal, you and I," she continued with no change of expression. "You have something I need to know . . ." She then leaned forward with her arms still folded, propping her elbows on the pristine surface of the table. This new position caused the smooth, black fabric of her blouse to bunch and dip just enough to reveal a hint of cleavage, the flesh gathered and rounded with the upwards motion. "Maybe I have something that you need, as well."

The words should have been dripping with innuendo considering her change of pose, but the sight and sound of her was still as emotionless and severe as before. Perhaps she was unaware of what she had revealed, he considered; she did seem too aloof to use her body as a tool for interrogation. He had also been given some background on her prior to her arrival: a senior agent with a mottled past and very little patience when it came to adversaries. And she had done some questionable things before she came to work for S.H.I.E.L.D., things she no longer chose to discuss . . . some very bad things. No, she wouldn't use the subtle power of seduction. Rather, she was the type of woman who would plunge a knife in your gut and then twist it until the agonizing pain made you tell her what she wanted to know. Although first she would apparently try to strike a bargain with you so she didn't have to get her hands dirty unnecessarily.

Maybe he was in love, after all.

He did see the frivolity in drawing out this situation, however. She was right about the tedious back-and-forth routine that accompanies interrogation, followed by an even more tedious interim incarceration. On this world, he would also most likely be subjected to a trial or a military tribunal at the very least. Sentencing would most likely lead him back essentially to where he came from: a secret, ultimate security prison. So, if she was willing to strike a bargain of some sort then perhaps he could gain a little something out of this whole laborious cycle. It might also make things less dull, which was infinitely more rewarding to him. He lifted the rim of the water glass to his parched mouth.

"What do you have that I could possibly want?" he challenged her with his typical wolfish grin. He swallowed the liquid down in a measured fashion, not wanting to reveal how desperately thirsty he truly was.

"Information," she replied coldly. "I need to know what happened inside that prison before the walls imploded. You need to know what happened outside afterwards."

Okay, so now she had him a little intrigued. He stopped ingesting the liquid and ran his tongue slowly over the surface of his lips in consideration. None of his other interrogators had mentioned that there had been significant happenings outside of the Raft. He could play this game, perhaps, in exchange for this little tidbit; however, he was not going to make it painless. Oh, no. Of course not.

The redhead began to leaf through the file that was left on the table from before-his file from the Raft. "I can't help but notice that there aren't many details in this document," she chided. "The word 'unknown' does appear a lot, though. 'Birth Name: unknown. Planet of origin: unknown. Native language: unknown.' You seem to be a man of few words, Mister . . . " She paused for him to fill in the appropriate response.

"I am known as 'Blackout,'" he responded, his voice rough and almost breathy. "I'm not from around here."

"I noticed," the woman smirked, turning her attention back to the folder in her hands. "You claim your species to be 'Lilin,' according to these papers. I don't think I've ever heard of that."

"Like I said . . . not from around here."

"Enlighten me," she dared. She leaned slightly more forward, allowing another modest glimpse of the upper curves of her chest. He would like to say that he didn't look, but, hey, he's only human. Okay, only partially human, actually, but he may have still stolen a glance anyway.

"Lilins are descended from the sorceress known as Lilith." He paused to see if the woman registered any recognition of this name. "Your masters have told you nothing about my origins at all? A pity."

"Why don't you fill me in?" It was true that S.H.I.E.L.D. had kept her more on the earthbound side of their endeavors. Until the Chitauri, she wasn't even aware of beings from outside their solar system and precious little about any species who did not hail from Earth.

"Lilins are what are essentially known on your planet as _demons_," he hissed. "We descend from one demon-goddess who allows us autonomy over our lives, for the most part, but can call us to do her bidding at any time. This being is my grandmother."

"Lilith," she replied. Perhaps he was of terrestrial origin, after all. It was difficult to say what superbeings the agency might be holding back from her based on what little she had been able to glean from their confidential databases. Tales of a demonic being named Lilith did run through the mythology of several cultures, including early Christianity. "So why hasn't your dear grandmother called you back out of this place? You've been here for nearly two years."

"I guess she hasn't needed me," he replied. "Autonomy, remember, my dear Natasha?"

She flinched briefly at the intimate use of her first name but recovered quickly. She was pleased that he was at least speaking, and perhaps if she continued to banter about things that did not seem important he would drift into more relevant conversation without even realizing it. "Fair enough," she said, not giving him the slightest clue that she had been shaken. If he wanted to bring up names then she was game. "So, why 'Blackout'?"

He didn't answer immediately as he was finishing off the last of the proffered drink. The last gulp was a little too coarse, a trickle of liquid finding its way down the corner of his lips which he wiped crudely away with the back of his hand. The gesture was just enough to betray that he was feeling some of the pressure that the agency had been trying to bring to bear upon him. He grimaced with the realization that he had exposed his vulnerability, but Natasha kept her expression neutral so as not to acknowledge it. He had to trust her if she was going to get anywhere with this interrogation. Making him feel weak or humiliated was not productive so she kept talking as if there had been no change.

"I mean, you don't seem very . . . _dark _to me," she laughed gently, and she let the corner of her mouth reveal what she hoped was the trace of a warm smile. Surely he had to appreciate the irony of the name when his complexion was so bloodless.

"It is not my given name, Agent Romanov." She did not fail to miss how his demeanor had shifted to become more formal. He still felt exposed, and that meant he wouldn't be very forthcoming until she could make him relax a little. "It was my 'Name among the Nameless,' bestowed upon me not for how I appear, but rather for my abilities."

"You mean your powers?" She was aware that this cell had supernatural power-dampening capabilities, although the technology was not as sophisticated as that at the Raft. Coulson had warned her that he would likely not be completely without powers-which, therefore, he presumably had-but that they would be severely weakened behind the barrier contained within the walls of the room.

Suddenly there was darkness-the room went utterly black, all light extinguished for the space of several very puzzling seconds. She could still hear the buzzing of the overhead lighting and the humming of the central air conditioning so the electricity was still in working order, and yet there was not a trace of any discernible images, only an all-consuming blackness. Then, as quickly as it began, the makeshift eclipse ended. There was only the demon, staring back at her knowingly with those strange red eyes, followed by the sound of Coulson in her earpiece: 'Don't worry, he can only do that for a few seconds at a time thanks to the suppression field. And not very often.'

"Thank you for the . . . demonstration," she said blankly, hoping that the waver in her voice was not apparent. She handled the file absently while she tried to regain composure. She used the lull to think back over his last few statements so she could further her questioning. "Your''Name among the Nameless,' you said. That sounds significant. Can I ask you what you meant by that, exactly?"

"Well, suffice it to say that there are places in this universe where you do not want anyone to know who you are or where you come from." The demon seemed to smile again, but the gesture was half-hearted. "What others do not know, they cannot use against you."

"Where was this place-the place where they gave you your name?" Natasha searched the document in her hand again for any clues, but his past (as known to S.H.I.E.L.D., anyway) boiled down to just a few sentences which dealt exclusively with the planet Earth. Yet he had said 'this Universe,' which immediately set her cognitive wheels to turning. Perhaps she was not as qualified to run this interrogation as her employers had believed.

"A prison," he chuckled weakly.

"A prison, you say? Like the Raft?"

"Oh no," he retorted, his eyes darkening and his tone seeping with wicked knowledge. "It is not like the Raft, at all." She had not heard a voice dripping with such a malicious timbre since her encounter with Loki on the Helicarrier. She could endure it, of course, but it made her want to shiver with revulsion. '_Oh, no . . . you brought the Monster.'_

"Excuse me for just a moment, would you?"

She could only hope that her retreat was not perceived as hasty.

Coulson was waiting for her just outside the door. "That didn't feel like a stopping point, Agent Romanov," he remarked.

"Forgive me, sir, but I'm having some second thoughts about this assignment."

Natasha looked unnerved, even a little fidgety-and did she just call him 'sir'? He needed to run some immediate interference. "How do you mean? You are just interrogating a subject in custody after the takeover of a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility by a hostile force."

"Believe me, Coulson, I wish it were that simple." She shook her head emphatically. "I am not qualified to be conducting the interrogation of this particular subject." Her intonation brooked no argument.

"I don't follow," he replied.

"He's talking about an extraterrestrial prison facility, and my training is strictly terrestrial."

"You did a pretty commendable job with Loki, and he wasn't terrestrial." He placed a hand awkwardly on her shoulder. Touchy-feely wasn't really his forte, but he was sensing that he should at least make an attempt. It was not like Natasha Romanov to doubt herself.

"Loki may have gotten under my skin more than I've ever let on." Coulson led her over to the nearby water cooler and deftly poured her a cup one-handed. She downed it in one brash gulp. "It wasn't becausehe threatened to kill me," she tried to explain, "but he threatened Clint-Agent Barton, and his words were just pure venom . . . pure hatred." He handed her another drink which she downed just as quickly. "Pure evil," she finished. She kept her gaze down, shuffling her feet back and forth on the over-waxed tile. Coulson wasn't sure whether or not she noticed that she had crushed the paper water cup flat against her palm. She then raked her fingers back through her hair in a manner which bordered on anxious. Natasha was certainly not herself, he noted.

She took a slow, deliberate breath in before she continued. "I've seen my share of evil in this line of work, Phil." He did not draw attention to the use of his first name as he thought it might deter her from her therapeutic torrent of brutal honesty. "Hell, I've _been_ my share of evil." He nodded in mild agreement. "But I have never been _that_ close to it. He was so mad with it you could smell it on him. He was hell-bent on vengeance."

"Mmm-hmm," Coulson said. "Except that he wasn't."

"Exactly," she answered and then paused as she allowed the meaning of this confession to resonate. "He wasn't crazy, and he wasn't out for revenge." She nudged the baseboard behind her with the heel of her boot and then stood for a number of minutes in frustrated silence. "Well, he wasn't completely crazy," she whispered finally.

"That's what I thought, too," Coulson admitted. "He was too measured and too driven to be totally insane. Even his mistakes were measured. He didn't kill his brother when he had the chance . . . so no clear vengeance plot, either. I also got the possible impression that he did not really care about ruling the human race."

"So did I," Natasha probed, leaning forward and raising one eyebrow. "You had the same suspicions I did, but you never said anything to the higher-ups. Why?"

"I could ask you the same question," he smirked. "Although, I did say it to his face. He lacked conviction, and I told him so."

"So, how did you figure him out?" she probed.

"Through his own words. 'A warm light for all mankind' wasn't the only breadcrumb he dropped, by my estimation."

Her look implored him to continue.

""Freedom is life's great lie.' It's too draconian for someone who has spent his whole life cowed beneath the weight of trying to live up to a more successful sibling. I think he was sending us a message."

"That he was far from free?" she pondered, rubbing her index finger thoughtfully against her lower lip. "It's an intriguing thought," Natasha admitted.

"So, what does any of that have to do with this assignment?" Coulson segued tactfully.

" I just don't know if I can go through it again," she sighed. It was as close to defeated as Coulson surmised she would ever sound. "When I confronted Loki in that cell, it didn't go as I imagined that it would. I thought he would be like the others, the arrogant megalomaniacs who justify their actions by reciting some manifesto that comes spilling out of their crazy heads. You can see it in their eyes . . . they're lost. Beyond all reason."

"But . . .?"

"Loki wasn't like that. He was brilliant: calculating, eloquent, and controlled. And he knew exactly what to say to break down my defenses. I was hopelessly outmatched in there." She turned away from him as if she couldn't bear letting him hear the naked honesty of her assertion. "For the first time in my life, I felt truly small-insignificant-like a gnat buzzing around the head of a giant. I realized then that the universe must be millennia ahead of us and that whatever is out there is likely to play with us like a shiny toy."

"And crush us when they tire of us," Coulson finished.

She nodded thoughtfully.

"I can't say I didn't feel the same when I felt the blade of that scepter come through my ribcage," he confessed quietly. "I had never anticipated the possibility of him being able to duplicate his image or to seem to be somewhere he was not because it's just not what we deal with in our world. We don't have magic here. We don't do telekinesis or mind-reading or doorways to other dimensions." This seemed like the appropriate moment to try again to place a comforting hand on her shoulder so he did, and the gesture was easier this time, not as stiff. He paused briefly to be pleased with himself before he went on. "I don't know how to tell you this, Agent Romanov, but we don't really have _anyone _who is qualified to do these types of interrogations. It comes up very infrequently. And you more than handled yourself last time. I trust that you can do it again."

"But I need something more," she countered. "Something I can go in there and wave in front of him to make him squirm. I'm going to need your help with that."

"I'll send Agent May in next door with the little guy. He's been close more than once to giving us the name of the one who escaped . . . the one who Blackout knew from before. Natasha, believe me, he'll talk. Just give her a few minutes. I'll have her lean on him a bit." He suddenly realized that his touch had been lingering on her arm longer than was probably necessary. He removed it awkwardly. So much for progress in the touchy-feely experiment. "Can I count on you?" he asked, still hopeful.

She was looking at him with a contemplative stare, an indication that she was at least considering his words. "I'll do what I can," she said after a painful pause. "Just get me that name."

"I'm back," Natasha announced as she re-entered the room, seating herself in her previous chair. She was perfectly composed again, the professional guise slipping comfortably back into place. "I trust that you missed me?"

"Every second was sheer agony," the prisoner teased, red eyes shining.

"Have you been considering our offer?" she asked and propped her chin confidently on her tented fingers. The cold exterior had also returned effortlessly, he admired.

"You tell me what happened outside the Raft, and I tell you what happened inside?" he clarified. She nodded. "But who goes first?" he leered in response.

"Well, you are enjoying _our_ hospitality so I guess you do."

"Of course," he laughed as he tapped his fingers gleefully on the tabletop. He had every intention of drawing this round of questioning out as long as he could, and at the end, this agency would know little more than they knew right now. He, however, would be well hydrated and fed before he returned to his holding cell, as long as he played by their rules. It would all be so simple. . .

Suddenly, she was holding her finger to her head and listening intently to a voice in her earpiece. Then she grinned with overt satisfaction. "Okay, you go first, then," she purred. "I ask the questions and you answer."

Her abrupt shift in mood made him hesitate, but he grudgingly indicated his agreement. He narrowed his eyes at her with suspicion as he nodded.

"So . . . " she started, drawing out the words with excruciating intent, " . . . who is 'Kaal'?"

His response was multifaceted: first, he was gripped with shock, his jaw hanging open in an undignified show of surprise, and then he was sneering and making a sound which was nearly a low-throated growl. He slammed an angry fist against the table and sat back, crossing his arms with what resembled a childish pout despite his unearthly appearance. Oh, he was definitely affected, and this was a positive development . . . just not for him, it seemed. It was going to be much more difficult to feed them worthless intel now. They obviously had a second source, and now they knew about that wretched traitor, which stripped him of a great deal of leverage. The last thing he wanted to do was have to speak about Kaal; it would undoubtedly lead to a discussion of a less-than-pleasant aspect of his past that was better off buried forever-just like Kaal, ironically.

Still, there was no way he had survived that collapse, Blackout had determined. It had happened more abruptly than anyone could have suspected, and, although the sorcerer was obviously revelling in his rival's misfortune at the last, his own end could not have been far behind. Besides, there had been no Juggernaut waiting to drag him to salvation. Yet that fact did deprive him of the opportunity to crush in his smug countenance with his own bare hands, and he mourned that loss, at least.

"He's no one," Blackout fumed. "An old acquaintance from a different incarceration."

"From the prison you spoke of before?" Natasha mimed a drinking motion towards the two-way mirror behind her, and in just a few seconds an agent was bringing in two bottles of chilled water. He sat one in front of each of them and quickly retreated back through the door.

The captive reached dismally for the drink. "Yes, it was the same prison" he answered in a rushed mumble.

"Then let's start there." The red-headed woman looked at him knowingly from under her half-lidded eyes. "Who is Kaal, and how do you know him?"

Fine, he thought petulantly, he could still tell the tale without getting into the specifics of the confrontation within the Raft. If he drew it out long enough, he could still milk them of a few meals before they tired of his stalling and banished him back to his modest chamber. "Where should I begin?" he grumbled.

"At the beginning," she said. She twisted the cap off of the water bottle and placed it in his grip. "Where did you meet him?"

So, it was to be headfirst into the unpleasantness, then? Fair enough. "It was in the darkest part of our Universe," he began. "Well, at least, so far as anyone knows. In a prison, known affectionately as the 'Pit.'" He stopped in the ludicrous hope that she would somehow be satisfied by so concise an answer.

"Tell me," she urged, her eyes focused on his in an unwavering glare.

She was going to make him tell her everything, he surmised. He took a preliminary swallow of the cool drink in preparation for the long night ahead of them both. "Are you certain?" he pleaded weakly in a last effort for mercy.

"_Tell me,_ " she repeated. The words were more emphatic this time.

So he began to tell her everything. From the beginning.


	4. Part I: Denial Chapter 3

-3-

The journey from Hala to the prison planet had taken six days by starship. Those who had been chosen from the jail on the Kree homeworld were carried in the hold of the ship, shackled to one another like livestock, and hassled incessantly by the reptilian Badoon guards that accompanied them. To be 'chosen' by the Badoon scouts was to be damned, or so the legends had told-it was to be taken from one prison facility to another, but the destination was beyond the horrors known to any civilization. The scouts were agents of Thanos who dredged the galaxy for the irretrievably lost and broken, those who had lost all will to exist in the cultures which had bore them and might be made to fight in the hordes of the Mad Titan. It was the ultimate honor and the most exquisite torment twisted into one horrifying adulation. It had been within the confines of Hala that he had been 'blessed' by the strange outriders from among all the piteous ranks with which he was imprisoned.

When he had departed Hala, his fellow inmates had bade him a tearful farewell, and the mere presence of such emotion had sobered him. These hardened felons were not the kind to shed tears with abandon. "Forget your name," they had counseled. "Do not speak of your past or your origins. All knowledge will be used to your detriment." Then they had each embraced him in turn, as if they believed that this was the last warmth, the last sentiment he was likely to ever receive. "Pray for the end," he had been told by several of his compatriots. "Your end is the only mercy." It would have been easy to lose control from the fear while he was being ferried to the place which was certainly the terminus of his existence. Still, there were none among their numbers who wept or cried out, either in terror or in sorrow. The horrible burden of the dread was too exhausting, and it left strength for nothing else.

Upon arrival, they had been shepherded through the Last Gates: an imposing entrance whose height was three times his own, its spiked cornices gaping like the maw of some hideous, looming beast over their shuffling forms as they crossed the threshold. The line of the newly-condemned moved as one indolent mass which had been weighed down by its tragic circumstance, the sound of chain against chain accompanying their leaden approach like the bells of a fiendish lullaby. The 'chink, chink, chink,' of the dragging metal was the serenade to their final approach. Once you enter the gates, he had been told, your fate was sealed eternally. No light. No escape.

No hope.

This was the prison planet of Algorant, its entire surface barren save for the prison yards cut deep within the face of the rock. The tilt of its axis left this face of the world in utter darkness for most of its revolution. Not that it mattered, it seemed-few of the souls who were sentenced to serve in the Pit survived longer than an Earth year, and those who did were doomed to a brutal and decidedly brief life in the Master's army of the fearless and insane. It was a contingent of ill-fated combatants with a single, dual-edged purpose: to serve and to die.

Despite the peril of his predicament, he had managed to be quite stoic. The intake process at this notorious institution mirrored nearly all of the others he had known, and he suffered the familiar indignities with quiet acceptance. First, he was stripped of the garments he wore, searched and cleaned before being clothed in new garb which labeled him as one of the Nameless. It was not unlike the uniforms of other prisons throughout the galaxies, which were also shapeless and neutral in shade. The new arrivals were then herded to chambers filled with those who would shear them to baldness to prevent the spread of parasites and powder them with chemicals which would hamper disease. All of this was ludicrous ritual, of course, since within the walls of Hell there were no rules to protect them. Pestilence was the mildest of hardships to be faced here.

After they had been shaved and clothed, the new arrivals were divided into smaller groups and escorted to the wards to which they had been assigned. During this period of its orbit the planet was in a state of eternal dusk, with just enough phosphorescence to discern the details of most objects and persons within one's immediate vicinity, and this left the surroundings bathed in a predominantly gray temper. The landscape was devoid of almost all vegetation save a sparse bit of harsh scrub, and the wind was incessant and foul. Thus far, it had lived up to his expectations quite readily, the Lilin supposed. The prison yard itself was not spacious enough to allow for the presence of many inmates so it was presumably not there for their recreation; perhaps it merely served as a buffer area for the guards to move in and out of the main holding room.

As he and a handful of others approached the fence outside of what was to be their designated quarters, the demon squinted feverishly to make out the forms of his new neighbors, but the smoky half-light betrayed almost no one out on the grounds. When they came within a dozen meters of the perimeter, however, he could determine one shadow which moved with some purpose. Its steps seemed to mirror theirs languidly as they neared the gate, and they came closer to the entrance in equal measure until the dim outline stood directly opposite the guard, the fencing separating them by a thin distance. It possessed a wasted form, the bones jutting desperately through what he recognized as the ragged and filthied remnants of the uniform he now wore himself. Its head was downcast and haloed by a tangled mop of hair so dark it looked black even in this place of darkness. So the head-shaving was more for humiliation than sanitation, he realized. _This is what I will become,_ he acknowledged with a shudder. He half-expected the face which slowly raised to greet them to bear his features.

The gesture was drawn out painfully, a leisurely rolling of the muscles until the pale, gaunt visage was finally visible; in spite of his starved appearance, the movement was nearly graceful in its control. The Lilin could not stifle a gasp. None of the others who stood with him seem to have noticed for they were also presumably transfixed by this creature who prophesied their fates: he was humanoid in form, with sinews of taut muscle stretched tightly over long bones. His eyes were sunken back into prominent hollows in his flesh, like savage thumbprints pressed into clay, and his countenance was all angles, the cheekbones fine and prominent but dusted in sickly shadows that spoke of bruises not yet fully healed. The skin itself was surprising in its unblemished pallor-it bore no visible scars or wounds, and the complexion was white as polished bone.

The prisoner's eyes rolled upwards with the same lingering monotony. "Good evening, Thirty-Seven." The words flowed out like liquid, and the voice was so unlike the decimated thing before him, that for a moment it seemed that it must have been the guard who had spoken rather than the inmate. The voice was like warm honey, its character soothing and yet fatally seductive.

The sentry, a hulking beast of a creature who was taller by a head, ceased fumbling with his many keys to meet his gaze. "Back off, Kaal," he warned aggressively. The Badoon stiffened his posture and twisted his lips into a sneer, but his hands became even less steady while he searched for the proper key.

"My, my . . . you seem distracted, Thirty-Seven," came the silken voice once more, the tone sweetly taunting. "May I help you with that?" Kaal finished with the flash of a rakish grin. The delicate ashen fingers of the prisoner began to snake between the bars of the gate, and the Badoon tore his hands away from their reach as if they bore the promise of immediate death. The creature then tried to recover by quickly raising a fist to the inmate. He let it hover in the air with fiendish intent for several moments before he brought it down heavily on the metal bars, the barrier shuddering with the heft of the blow. Kaal, however, had not flinched, and, in fact, still wore a mocking leer. "I said back off, Kaal," the guard howled as he pressed his nose to the bars, looking down on the disheveled figure with palpable ire.

The prisoner bowed low in a gesture which was lithe but blatantly sardonic, then took several steps back and allowed the guard to finish his business with the entrance gate. The Lilin was again struck by how he was able to maintain such poise with so little meat on his frame, though what little bulk he still possessed was obviously muscular in origin. He was considering the unkempt man more carefully than he realized, but when his look fell upon the gaze of the other, he stopped short.

The man was considering him back.

Their eyes met for the briefest of instances, until the moan of the heavy door opening shifted their attentions. As the line of inductees dragged into the yard, the demon found himself passing within two hands' breadth of the gaunt figure. He was not aware that he had ceased to breathe until he was nearly a step beyond him; however, his drawn breath came out in a sudden, violent huff when he felt the hand that firmly grasped his elbow, the clutch as strong as iron . . . and possibly as cold.

The Badoon escort turned back when he sensed that the line had stopped. "Is there a problem?" he demanded of Kaal, who was gripping the Lilin's arm and studying him curiously. The eyes of the prisoner were uncomfortably near to his face, and he could finally see their color-an icy blue-green. Their focus seemed to cut a swath straight through his skull to expose his every thought, like greedy fingers seeking to palpate his consciousness.

Kaal released his hold and faced the guard. "This one does not belong here," he hissed accusingly at the guard.

The reptilian guard sneered in satisfaction. "That's what we said about you not so long ago," he snorted. "And now the place practically reeks of you." He threw an arm into Kaal's chest, causing him to stagger back just a few steps. Then the guard gave the chain which held the demon's fetters a brutal tug, urging him to continue into the interior.

As he retreated, the Lilin was certain that the bony prisoner's eyes were still following him intently.

Even the Nameless have names, it seems. Since none among the incarcerated on Algorant were called by their given monikers, it was customary for them to be given one of their fellow prisoners' choosing. His name had been obvious, given his unique ability to reduce the halls to darkness with just a whisper of his will. His sentries quickly grew weary of this little ruse and would have him punished mercilessly . . . well, more mercilessly than the torments that he would typically be forced to endure, which were grisly in their own right.

When he had asked about the inspiration for Kaal's pseudonym, the others had chuckled conspiratorially. A Baluurian captive had explained its meaning to him: "My people have a term used to describe a season on our ancient homeworld: in the darkest, most frigid days of the year, the 'Kaal' would blanket the planet. It was a deathly cold, consuming all save those who would retreat deep beneath the surface." The Baluurians had seventeen different words for cold, it seemed; this particular one was associated with mortality-the "creeping death." How the tall, gaunt prisoner had earned this name, however, was still a tempting mystery.

The newly christened 'Blackout' found his ability to be of immediate use when the Master had requested his assistance with a mission for which he was uniquely suited. He had helped an entire squadron of the Titan's soldiers to escape the Shi'ar patrols by shielding them in impenetrable shadow, and it earned him special favors among those in his cell block. The guards often asked him to accompany them on short sojourns outside his assigned ward, and he was able to observe the daily operations in the facility from an outside perspective. He took these opportunities to inquire about his fellow detainees in order to gain an advantage within the enclosure. Perhaps he did ask about Kaal more often than the others, but then he was the most infamous resident in his wing-it was only natural that he would seek to determine his weaknesses. This line of questioning had led him to the realization that even the guards in this section were heedful of Kaal, although they were not so forthcoming when it came to the extent of their mistrust. They did reveal that cellmates tended to turn up dead around the dark-haired convict, and the method of their demise (along with the exact perpetrator) remained well-hidden.

Thirty-Seven was a relatively young guard, but Nineteen . . . well, he had seen so much more. He was also a Badoon, as nearly all the wardens were, but he was more grizzled than most. He had a shorter, broader build, and his hide was more textured. He also had more scars-deep, fissures which criss-crossed his back and chest, and a particularly broad one which encircled the left side of his face from the jawline to the center of his skull. This wound had cost him the respective eye, as well, judging from the gaping concavity which remained in its stead. Perhaps his experience led to a lack of fear, as his tongue was far more loose than the others, and the demon had used this knowledge to his favor. If not for Nineteen, he would have known far less about his cellmates and how they came to be among the ranks of the Nameless. Naturally, he had asked about Kaal-Nineteen just happened to have been on duty when he was brought in and was able to recount the tale rather ordinarily.

The scouting party had just returned from the planet of Sakaar, a tumultuous world with various races in an otherwise uninhabited system. The new 'recruits' included some of the most hulking and barbaric which had ever been brought into the facility, or so Nineteen remembered it. Among them, however, was one who was not so burly or intimidating-a wan, almost delicate man with dead eyes. He was not hard or cruel enough to be here, the guards had wagered. He would be killed within a matter of days, and all the better for it. The reasons for why he had been culled were not readily apparent, and the scouts who had enlisted him were tormented for their lack of selectivity. The jailers on Sakaar had pleaded with them to take him, the outriders had explained. He had been in their cells for months, and no matter how hard they had tried to starve and persecute him, he somehow never seemed to wither. They didn't trust him. In fact, they said they feared him.

The Badoons scoffed at the tale. What power could such a pitiful creature wield that he should be feared here, in this place of ultimate cruelty? 'What crime had he committed to be imprisoned to begin with?' one of them had asked mockingly.

'Murder,' the scout had retorted.

Of course-all of the inmates were killers. But what made this feeble being qualified to end his days in bondage with the most depraved in all the universe? He had killed only one man, they revealed, and over a loaf of bread. He had killed for hunger, and was that crime was enough to condemn him to the most unenviable of all fates?

'Perhaps,' one of the scouts had stated, defensively, 'but he had stabbed the man repeatedly in the throat until there was no blood left to flow from him. They found him laughing in a crazed rage, the rain beating down on him full force. By the time the authorities arrived to collect him, the bread was dirty and soaked beyond use. He continued to laugh as they pried it from his hands, and he didn't stop for hours after they had captured him.'

It was a mildly disturbing anecdote, but nothing compared to the indiscretions of the others sentenced to the Pit. He was essentially here, it was decided, because he had done too well in his former imprisonment, and his captors had been cowed by it. The absurd nature of the circumstances was almost amusing.

Until the enigmatic deaths began.

Random casualties were certainly not uncommon among the Nameless, or even among the guards, for that matter. However, the pattern of killings surrounding this particular prisoner were decidedly _not _random, the victims belonging to two distinct categories-those who had threatened or mistreated Kaal, and those who had tried to take certain 'liberties' with him, as it were. The Lilin was no stranger to the perils of prison life, and he knew there were always those creatures willing to force others to serve their baser needs; a weaker, more appealing being (far more pleasing when he had first arrived, Nineteen assured him) would be particularly vulnerable to undesired attention. However, he had not been violated since he had been here, although his cellmates did speak of times when others had tried-physically imposing beasts, with no traces of sympathy or mercy. He had been able to deflect them at the time, through tricks or cunning, and then they would meet grisly ends when they were unobserved.

At first, the Badoons thought that one of the other prisoners must have been protecting him, for none could believe that he was capable of taking down such enormous, vicious adversaries on his own. However, as time passed, the attempts to defile him became more brazen, and so the retaliation became more readily observable. There were inmates who claimed to have seen Kaal wound and slay much larger beings than himself, seemingly with the aid of no weapons, and the witnesses gave the assassin a wide berth from then on. When asked why they feared him among all the other murderers with which they were housed, they spoke of the fire of madness in his gaze which had horrified them. The only time his eyes did not seem empty, the observers had stated, was when he killed.

Kaal's notoriety did work to his benefit in one respect, however, because it had kept him out of the fighting arena. The Eye was so named because it was orbital in shape, and when the contests ended, the surface bore a smear of centrally spattered blood which gave the illusion of a ghastly, red iris from the elevated viewing platforms. A group of six to ten of the most promising fighters were chosen from among the captives, and the doors were locked behind them until only one remained. It was a gory ritual with a nefarious purpose: to determine who was ready to join the ranks of the Titan's armies. There was only harrowing death or brutal servitude to be gained from a journey to the Eye, and the prison guards used it as an avenue for their own amusement in addition to the existing menace that it bore.

Wagering on outcomes was more than routine, and the workers took great pride in selecting and placing various weapons throughout the interior for combatants to use to take one another (often quite literally) apart. Sometimes, a few more vulnerable prisoners were sprinkled in just to be used as living inducements for the warriors to show their skills without the loss of potentially valuable soldiers. By rights, Kaal should have been one of these at one time or another. It was his abstruse nature that made him a source of diversion for his listless wardens, and they selfishly kept him away from the feuds in the dim hope that they might eventually be able to tease out his secrets.

In Blackout's seventh week among the Nameless, Kaal's fortune finally soured. There had been an influx of newly trained guards, and, on one afternoon, their cell block had a shift laden with rookies who had to select a sampling of warriors destined for the Eye. Kaal was intended to be a martyr among worthy fighters. The demon had been out on patrol with Twenty-six, who was gruff and not compelling company, when they had received the word that the famed prisoner was being taken to the arena, and the pair wasted no time making their way back to witness the results. The combatants had not yet taken the field when they arrived, and the air was thick with heady expectation. As the opponents entered, an eager gasp rippled through the observers, hands tightening on the railings of the viewing areas located above the sparring grounds. There were four to five obvious favorites, massive creatures with arms which rivaled the widths of the trees on most inhabited worlds. Kaal was the final entrant, and he had to be both led and positioned by a disinterested Badoon.

"This won't take long," this guard was heard to remark to a fellow watchman. "That one is already dead," he derided indifferently.

Indeed, the shriveled figure bore no realization of where he was, his stare as hollow as it would have been if he were alone in his cell. He remained dormant among the others as the bloodshed commenced, watching one after another of his brethren fall to the slaughter. When there were only three survivors other than himself, he finally appeared to have some recognition of what was transpiring around him, his eyes raising dully to the remaining fighters. He stepped casually over to his nearest fallen comrade-who had suffered a dagger to the throat-and nimbly slid the offending weapon from the surrounding flesh. He considered the blade sterilely as the largest of his opponents began to approach. It was clear that the lumbering fiend was intent on making a demonstration of Kaal's death for he strode toward him with a threatening grin on his lips, the anticipation of the kill causing copious spittle to ooze from the corners of his clenched jaw. He raised up the blunt but massive sword that he bore menacingly above his head and paused several meters from his target in order to let out a thunderous roar. The crowd of onlookers erupted into a corresponding howl of delight.

Kaal took two or three fluid steps towards his opponent, his black, bedraggled locks shielding the majority of his features due to the downward tilt of his head. He paused in front of an abandoned blade about one and a half times the length of his hand. He worked the tip of his filthy boot underneath the edge of the knife lazily, and the beast's shoulders shook with unheard laughter- _it was going to be too effortless to do away with this piteous, mad specter_, his demeanor conveyed. The larger figure loosened and tightened his grip on his weapon with delicious impatience, the pleased expression still playing upon his countenance. Meanwhile, the remaining three fighters had increased their radius and waited patiently, giving the two who now faced one another ample room for the expected massacre.

It was in this moment of hushed anticipation that Kaal flicked the toe of his boot nimbly, the blade landing deftly in his empty left hand. At the same time, his head rolled upwards in that familiar, sleepy gesture to expose the details of his face. A throb of murmurs ran through the spectators as they considered his changed visage: his lips wore a wicked smile which barely exposed his foremost teeth, and his eyes were anything but dead-in fact, they were permeated by razor-sharp focus with deadly intent. Then he began to come forward, and he seemed to gain speed and determination with each lithe footfall, a dagger balanced threateningly in each hand. His adversary looked even more gratified by this change of circumstances; _if he fights, all the better for the show_. Those gathered above leaned in eagerly to savor the unfolding events, and the tension rippled through them like a painful wound.

The smaller male halted just steps from his opponent. He was immediately met with a second boisterous roar which was directed into his very face, a move intended to intimidate him and draw his fear to the surface. Instead, Kaal matched him with a yell of his own, and although the volume did not nearly rival that of the enormous figure which loomed over him, it still left his enemy slack with astonishment. The slim man's eyes crackled with a delirious fire as he spun agilely, his limbs a pale blur in the half-light. The barbarian fell in a limp heap before him, his throat bearing a gaping incision. He immediately threw the two blades in his hands outwards, catching the two more of his adversaries in the throat so hastily that it was nearly imperceptible. He then stepped quickly to the final warrior-picking up a pair of shortswords en route-and they began to spar vigorously, Kaal nimbly dodging blows with hisses of pleasure. With a final dizzying whirl, the slighter man buried both blades deep into his adversary's midsection. With a crisp movement, Kaal pulled the force of this arms in opposite directions, splitting the being in half and covering himself from head-to-toe in a spray of blood. As the cleaved flesh landed at his feet, the butcher stood motionless, his chest evening and a wicked smile still gracing his mouth. He then turned tortuously toward the Badoon who had led him into the arena, his lip cocked in a derisive sneer. He raised the weapons above his head and then allowed them to fall to the ground without ceremony, the points sticking purposefully into the soft ground, and then strode sanguinely over to the sentry who was guarding the entrance to the grounds.

"I wish to return to my cell," he stated coldly.

The guard pivoted to open the door leading back to the prison wings, deliberately not turning his back on the blood-drenched prisoner. He placed him in manacles and escorted him back into the halls of the institution, a hand gripped loosely on his upper arm, his gait noticeably a step or two behind the victor as if in deference. When the inmates caught sight of Kaal-the lone survivor, painted in the blood of his opponents-there was at first a bewildered hush, followed by a raucous celebration. Out of the mingled cries of the incarcerated, the thrum of a chant began to emerge. After several minutes, it was loud enough to be heard by those still present in the arena.

They were chanting Kaal's name.


	5. Part I: Denial Chapter 4

-4-

"After Kaal's first victory in the arena, he was made to fight at least five more times-at the pleasure of the guards, of course," Blackout conveyed blandly. "Each time he was victorious, although he did not always emerge unscathed. In the cases where he was wounded, he was given some time to recuperate before they forced him to fight again; however, he was treated no better for his conquests. In fact, his ability to relate to the others seemed to diminish until he was nothing but an empty husk . . . a hollow tool for destruction." He paused to rub his brow absently, his eyes rimmed red with exhaustion. "He must have killed at least thirty of our fellow inmates during those weeks," he finished drily.

Natasha nodded softly and motioned to the two-way mirror. In just a few moments, the same agent which had served them previously entered bearing a tray of fruit and finger sandwiches. Blackout smiled weakly in a gesture of gratitude before he lifted one of the undersized snacks between two fingers, studying it carefully. After only a brief instant, he popped it appreciatively into his mouth and chewed contentedly.

"So, Agent Romanov," the demon hummed, "I've told you who Kaal was. Now you owe me something in return." He rolled a plump red grape lazily between two fingers. Natasha knew he must be famished, but he was trying so dutifully to obscure his hunger and not betray any weakness.

"Certainly . . ." she replied cooly, arms still crossed and studying him carefully. "You want to know what happened outside the Raft?" Blackout placed the grape on his tongue and began to chew; he was just beginning the act of swallowing when she continued. "Kaal escaped," she gloated haughtily.

The Lilin choked raucously on the fruit, and he lost his breath for several seconds while he convulsed with the effort. The agent calmly crooked an eyebrow at his response, and followed up with: "Strawberry?" She extended a large, red specimen toward him. The look she received in return was both shock and hatred in equal parts.

'Agent Romanov?' came Coulson's voice in her earpiece. 'I need you to come out now.'

"I'm not saying anymore," Blackout retorted angrily. "My cooperation is officially withdrawn," he rasped. The look in his eyes was not fear-it was somewhere between humiliation and rage.

"Your further cooperation is not needed at this time," she informed him. "But I will return when I need more of your assistance." She scooped up a crisp red apple from the fruit tray before them and took a satisfying mouthful. "You have my word," she vowed with a wry taunt. She threw him one last sly glance over her shoulder as she exited.

"What's up?" she asked Coulson casually between bites of the fruit she still carried.

"We have another piece of the puzzle," he answered soberly. "That, and I thought the subject could use a little break. According to his file, Blackout gets a little testy after about 24 hours of being on the hot seat. Then he tends to get somewhat . . . aggressive."

The demon did look as if he had a perilous temper, she had to admit. "I'm surprised that he would let a little discomfort get him so riled up. He's obviously survived much worse," Natasha commented. "It's also interesting how he clammed up once he found out that Kaal made it out alive. I take it they're not best bros."

The older agent nodded his agreement. "He does seem intimidated by that fact. It almost seems to me that he has done something to Kaal for which he is owed some comeuppance." Coulson rubbed his chin in contemplation. "Still, he could be useful to us regarding our new intelligence."

He gestured for her to follow him into the adjoining room where several agents in oversized headphones were gathered around a terminal. They were listening intently to sounds which Coulson and Romanov could not detect, and their focus was intense enough that no one acknowledged their entrance.

"We intercepted an audio transmission during the prison break at the Raft," the senior agent continued. "It was encrypted somewhat, but not extensively. We were able to _de_crypt it in just a few hours, but it has taken our best technical analysts up to now to get a clean copy. Not only was there considerable interference with the transmission, but the language is unknown to us."

"'Us' as in S.H.I.E.L.D?" Natasha inquired.

"'Us' as in humanity," he answered grimly. "The language is alien, and it's not one that we have encountered before; therefore it is completely untranslatable to anyone on the planet Earth. We have linguists looking for patterns, but it doesn't really compare to any of the tongues they've studied before. Unless we can hire an extraterrestrial being with an advanced linguistics degree, our chances of interpreting the message are slim to none." Coulson turned to one of the technicians and tapped on his headset, which the young man immediately relinquished. He placed it on gingerly on Natasha's ears, as if unsure that even this little bit of personal contact would be tolerated. She nodded in reassurance.

"Play it again from the beginning," Coulson instructed.

Romanov listened scrupulously to the flawed audio, even though she knew the words would be gibberish to her ears-she was trying to detect any background noise or any other telling sounds which might reveal anything about the voice's owner. The words were guttural and almost churlish in tone, and after about 30 seconds of utterances, the voice paused. A second voice then began speaking in the same indecipherable language for about 15 seconds before the first being picked up the thread of conversation again. There was a one minute exchange composed mostly of voice number one, and then silence. Unfortunately, the consistent hisses of static made the attempt to hear any movements or extraneous noises futile.

"There are two voices," she stated.

Coulson hummed his agreement. "It's a transmission from somewhere in outer space," he continued as if this were commonplace business. "The second voice is a message from inside the prison back to the first location."

"But that's useless to us if we can't determine what they're saying to one another," she thought out loud. "So there's no one in Asgard who we might be able to ask for help? They are technically friendlies as well as aliens, right?"

"Well, we don't exactly have a red courtesy phone that reaches Asgard. They prefer us Midgardians to speak only when spoken to."

"Noted," she conceded. "So, what's the plan?"

"I was hoping you might have some suggestions," Coulson shrugged. "Otherwise, we will just have to pry it out of the Great White Hope in there . . . provided it's a language he comprehends."

"Then we should have a plan B," Natasha suggested, "in case he makes good on his promise not to cooperate." Her smile turned teasing-almost wicked. "I think I might know just the person who might be able to help us, although he _has _gone off the grid recently." She paused to focus her gaze on the other agent. "And I think _you_ might be able to tell me his last known whereabouts," she said knowingly.

Coulson raised a wary eyebrow at the insinuation.

*. * *. *

Titan was a stinky, uninteresting place, Maelstrom had determined. It was dark due to its dense atmosphere, deathly cold for any number of reasons, and odiferous due to its lakes of ethane and the gaseous products of its cryovolcanoes. Yes, this had to be just about the most metaphorically appropriate place for him to have ended up after all his years of scheming to upend the universe. He had died and been in reborn in numerous bodies, and, while his physical form always seemed to maintain the powers of his previous incarnation, he also always managed to retain the intense emotions from his early years-the desire for retribution that left his soul raw. Now, here he was in the service of perhaps (at least, he hoped) the unkindest being in the entire universe, drumming his fingers listlessly along a control panel in an outpost and praying to all the deities of the 40-plus religions he had encountered that he would be struck dead in the next 30 minutes.

Titan was a boring hellhole.

Although, if he did have to die (again), then maybe this was not the place he would chose to do it. There were better corners of the Worlds to find your end than on this horrible moon, he knew . . . and yet, this just seemed right to him. To meet oblivion on a poisoned rock that smelled like a Badoon's backside-well, that was probably a better fate than he deserved.

It was certainly better than what _They _deserved. He had not gone a day in his tediously long existence where he didn't think about Them, dream about Them suffering the fate that they had reaped for themselves. The contempt that he bore that race of devils was so complete that he could not even think their true name, although it did occasionally slither its way, unbidden, into his thoughts. _Deviants. _ Oh, there it was again, their true name making itself known despite all his efforts to entomb it in his subconscious. It scorched his pride to know that half his blood was derived from them. Still, as long as he drew breath, there were always slim odds that they would suffer for what they had done. Even if that breath did reek of stale methane.

So Maelstrom continued the rhythmic thumping of his long fingers along the surface of the keyboard before him, moving air in and out of his chest dutifully on the off chance that something stimulating just might happen. _And if that something could just include horrible, endless retaliation against his entire maternal race, then, Adrestia, please hear my prayer,_ he entreated his unoccupied surroundings. He unknowingly clenched his fist against the hard, cool metal of the control panel, lost in his vengeful thinking.

Suddenly, the sound of a throat clearing broke the stillness . . . and it had not been his own. Maelstrom smiled contentedly before he turned to the sound; perhaps this was the answer to his appeal and he had finally chosen the right God(des) to which to offer his adulation. If so, he would turn to find the glorious silhouette of an Avenging Angel, a shining sword of retribution grasped high above its head. He chuckled softly as he pivoted in his seat, unequivocally presuming that he would find no such thing.

As always, life was not as full of surprises as some would have one believe.

Rather than the radiant vision of an ethereal being, the Inhuman's eyes were met with the obscured image of a male form leaning casually in the doorframe. Conveniently, his identity was masked by a shadow which fell across him from an unseen source, and Maelstrom chuckled to himself forcefully. "As if I would not know who you are," he teased the cryptic being.

The newcomer waved his hand wistfully, and the shadow fell away.

"How did you know it was me?" asked the shade, moving to take the empty seat at his left.

"Who else lurks in the gloom like some gothic diva?" Maelstrom ribbed the other man playfully. This jab received a hint of a chuckle in return. "But, more importantly, what brings you to this fetid corner of the universe?"

"I've come to offer you a proposition," the visitor murmured, his voice becoming low and melodious.

Maelstrom shivered with the familiarity of it: that canorous tone had always been a favorite of his, its provocative resonance awakening some of his more salacious urges. "A proposition, you say? Oh, I do hope it's what I think it is," he insinuated mischievously.

The other man raised a threatening eyebrow.

"Alright, alright . . . so it's not that kind of proposition," the Inhuman conceded. "I would like to go on record that I am officially disappointed but still willing to listen." He tented his fingers and pressed them to his lips in his best version of a passive listening pose. This lasted only seconds before he began to speak again. "What am I supposed to be calling you these days, anyway?"

The interloper marginally relaxed his intimidating mien. "'Kaal' will suffice. It is how the others will know me."

"So there will be others? Oh, now I am hurt," Maelstrom teased. There was that eyebrow again-perhaps it would be best to dial down the flirtation just a bit. After all, he had decided not to die on this forsaken rock. "May I ask whom I might be working alongside?"

"You shall be working alongside no one. If you accept my invitation, you will remain here and do exactly what I tell you to do precisely when I tell you to do it. It's a simple arrangement, truthfully." Kaal settled back in the chair and gave the other entity an engaging stare from beneath his brow.

"So you want to take charge, eh? I do look forward to it," the Inhuman answered. _Okay, that had just slipped out-_-and while Kaal was still unamused, he seemed as if he were adjusting to the constant stream of innuendo. He may still have a chance to survive this little exchange, he wagered. "What do I gain if I agree? I assume you are willing to offer me something in return for my assistance . . . or, rather, my blind, unquestioning obedience?" He tried to make that sound as neutral as he could, but the adolescent section of his psyche (which had never truly matured or been suppressed) could not help but quiver at the idea of being dominated by such a magnetic and powerful individual . . . plus, the sorcerer was quite a lovely creature once you scrubbed the filth off of him. But that thought was leading in other directions . . .

"You are currently working for Thanos. . . . well, perhaps _working _is too strong a word," Kaal snorted, looking around at the barren room and mostly empty screens. He then produced a square object from beneath his overcoat; it was fashioned from both plastics and lightweight metals, obviously some form of data drive. He placed it on the surface next to him, and then pushed it pointedly towards Maelstrom. "I have evidence that the Deviants have been working with Thanos for decades, providing his armies technical support and medical assistance. In exchange, he has allowed them to borrow some of his prison space, training for their guards, as well as giving them the technology and teaching them the techniques to run their prisons. I understand you spent some time in one of his subsidized torture facilities on the Deviant homeworld."

Maelstrom nodded feebly, trying to fathom that perhaps he was now working for the monster responsible (at least in part) for his past miseries. He reached gingerly for the device but then retracted his hand as if he feared it would be hot to the touch, all of his earlier grandstanding suddenly melting away.

"Also contained with this data is proof that your current Master has long supported campaigns of genocide across the Universe, funding and sometimes even directly aiding in the elimination of . . . undesirables in certain cases. Such was the case on Lemuria, where Thanos has personally overseen some of the 'purification rituals' that the native species routinely performs. This includes the execution of those Deviants who choose mates outside of their own kind, as well as the enslavement of their hybrid offspring."

The Inhuman's expression had gone blank, the muscles of his lips and cheeks going progressively slack as if his emotions were bleeding out of his eyes and pooling on the table before him. He suddenly bore the guise of a lost child, too young to endure the wound that had just been created within him by the sorcerer's words, and he was so still that he seemed as if he were abruptly lifeless.

Sensing that he was beyond coordinated movement, Kaal gently lifted the data drive from the countertop and placed it delicately in his yielding grip. The visitor then brushed the immobile man's cheek in a gesture which was light and pitying, and his eyes softened with-was it compassion? Certainly not from him; this one was cold and impliable. "I do not expect you to answer now," he said as he stood, preparing to exit. "However, I would like to leave you with a parting thought: any annihilation of the Titan's forces will certainly lead to collateral damage, and his defeat would be very injurious for those species who are complicit with his . . . activities."

Maelstrom remained too stunned to indicate a goodbye, but his eyes did follow the figure to the exit, his slender yet powerful form draped again in a murky shroud. Kaal did give him a rather curt but elegant bow before he rounded the corner and undoubtedly disappeared. _That crafty little minx, _he sniffed. He had known precisely how to ensure the Inhuman's inarguable loyalty to his impossible plan. _And they say the Titan is mad._

This would never work. Thanos was The Power in the universe-his legions vast and unstoppable. This scheme would (with its brightest outcome) get them killed, and (with its second brightest outcome) see them all cast into the darkest corner of the known worlds to endure eternal sufferings beyond all comprehension. He was already on the winning side so why would he betray his Master on the off-chance that some cunning (and enchanting, but let's not linger on that, right now) magician with an axe to grind _might_ do some damage that _might _result in the tiniest hint of some personal revenge?

Well, because of what was in his hand, of course.

His digits came gradually back to life, and he manipulated the object with consideration for a long moment before he inserted it into the designated port. At once, the screen came to life with multiple files-images, testimonies, and documentation of atrocities against the Inhumans by the Deviants. He skipped over most of the general information, although he promised himself that he would comb it all thoroughly at a later time. He lingered only briefly on the videos labeled "Purity Time" as it was teeming with live-action footage of mass executions from the Deviant fire pits. At last, he accessed a file that bore his name, and he gasped at what lay before him: the names of his parents (Father: Phaeder, Mother: Morga) and communiques which detailed their fates in every exquisite detail. There was even a confidential transmission to the Titan himself which made light of the incident during which Morga was killed and Maelstrom-still a child-was delivered into slavery. Sure, he had dwelled on these events for nearly the whole of his existence and ached every waking moment for retribution, but seeing it all described in such horrible nonchalance tore open the damaged pieces of his heart and left him in emotional agony.

'. . . some hag who rutted with an Inhuman . . . '

' . . . her crossbred brat was sniveling as we dragged him away . . . '

The words grew more cruel, more hurtful as he skimmed further along the document. At some point the words became blurred, as if through a haze of tears, but he forged on as if on a suicide mission. Finally, he came to a video file marked "Half-breed 6697." He hesitated, drawing in a stilling breath as if he knew the contents before he even began the playback.

There she was: his mother, gripping him like he was the root of her existence, and the Deviant patrolmen ripping her away, weeping violently-anguished. The video continued as the sound of shooting occurred off camera and then the dying whimpers of a woman, followed immediately by the grieving howls of the child as he was torn away from her corpse. The youth was hog-tied and thrown over the shoulder of an oversized Deviant soldier, still reaching, clutching, tearing, wailing . . .

'Mama . . . Mama . . . Mama . . .'

He was not entirely certain at what point his fist had breached the display screen, but he knew it would take all of his verbal finesse to explain it away to his superiors. When the sobs ceased, he fell back hard against the frame of the chair and waited for his vision to fade back into perceivable reality. He cradled his bleeding knuckles in the opposite palm for several minutes before he could reason enough to wrap them in a bit of cloth from his undershirt, and then he wiped his face clean with the back of his sleeve.

He spent the next quarter of an hour recovering from the emotional drain that the file had caused in him. However, when he finally did regain control of his faculties, he ejected the data file and held it firmly to his chest. After a few more minutes, he pressed it to his forehead and sighed as he allowed the full weight of the sentiment to wash over him from the inside out. He chuckled as he realized that it still smelled vaguely of the sorcerer who must have been carrying it in one of his pockets, close to his skin.

His avenging angel.

_Oh, Adrestia, I am forever in your debt._


	6. Part II: Anger Chapter 1

~~Part II: Anger~~

There is nothing that so much gratifies an ill tongue as when it finds an

angry heart. - Thomas Fuller

-1-

Driving could be liberating. At night, when the highways were lightly travelled and police radar guns were scarce, Natasha often allowed herself her little more speed. If she didn't need to be immediately presentable at the other end of the journey, she would even lower a window and let her hair form an unruly aura around her head as she raced through the blackness. More often than not, she cranked up the music volume to a level which was unhealthy for her hearing, the bass pounding forcefully in her chest as if it intended to replace that of her own heart. Tonight the soundtrack to her journey was classic alternative, and Sonic Youth was currently serenading her up the East Coast toward New York City and Avengers Tower. If she drove straight through, she could make it by dawn; more likely, if she stopped for a nap break and a refreshing convenience store breakfast she could make it by late morning.

Agent Coulson had taken some persuading to give her the information she needed, but in the end he had seen her point: messages from outer space are not likely to be positive for the Earth overall, particularly when they occur during an event which manages to free enemies (for the most part) of the entire planet. The only agent with clearance enough to know about any extraterrestrial contacts and who survived the S.H.I.E.L.D./Hydra fallout was Fury, and his whereabouts were known to a precious few. As Natasha then learned, however, no individual had the entire key to his location, and those who did were sworn to only reveal that knowledge in person to someone with the other half of the code. Coulson's piece was complementary to that held by Captain Steve Rogers who was presently on superhero sabbatical at the former Stark Tower, and, therefore, she was off to Manhattan on a merry chase to find the First Avenger. It would have been faster to fly, she realized, but there were no obvious reasons for haste. Besides, the longer Blackout stayed on ice, the more likely he was to participate in his interrogations.

The night was clear and speckled with innumerable stars which she could glimpse through the moonroof, and she wondered if any of those faraway glints represented Algorant. Not likely any that were visible from here, she assured herself, and that was fine by her. The thought of being any closer to that place of torment was repugnant at the very least, and the demon had barely described what had actually gone on there. She hoped she wouldn't have to make him elaborate on his experiences when next they met; however, if Kaal continued to appear in the mix . . . well, they were going to need Blackout's expertise in how to handle him. How twisted - how _dark _did one have to be to survive in that place, anyway? And Kaal had seemed to thrive there. It was no wonder his previous captors had wanted so desperately to be rid of him. Though she was trying not to dwell on the ominous prisoner, she found her thoughts tracing back to him repeatedly throughout the course of her journey, and almost obsessively so.

Around two-thirty, her adrenaline high finally began to plateau, and by four a.m. she was actively struggling against slumber. She pulled into the back parking lot of an all-night diner and tumbled drowsily into the back seat, using her jacket as a makeshift blanket. Tucked beneath the fabric was the form of her .22 pistol which she was never without, and she nuzzled against the steel outline as she settled in for a brief respite. As she began to doze, her attention drifted to a time when she and Clint had taken a road trip to Six Flags Great Adventure not too long after she had settled in America. He had immediately insisted that they brave the tallest, fastest coaster in the park (presumably to see if she would flinch). She had never heard him scream so loudly. Of course, he insisted that it had simply been a show of enthusiasm because he was enjoying himself thoroughly and nothing more.

And she had most definitely not heard him throwing up behind that food vendor's cart . . .

_She was back in the interrogation room, across from a vague figure which she knew must be Blackout, but the face was unclear. His spiked fingers raked noisily along the surface of the table between them, and he laughed for an unknown purpose, his voice mutating from that of the Lilin captive to a ghoulishly taunting tone: "My my, you seem distracted . . . may I help you with that?" The movement of the fingers were spider-like as they reached out to interlace with her own, and she retracted with revulsion. When her eyes snapped up to meet the gaze of the being opposite her, the eyes were glowing with a wicked fire, and the visage was enshrouded in a veil of inky locks. The wide, faceless grin revealed a mouth of razor-sharp teeth, dried blood clinging to his macabre dentition. He grasped her wrists harshly, and the flesh surrounding hers was cold and moist, sliding against her skin with serpentine malevolence. The creature's unseen lips drew close to her ear, and she could feel his hot breath urgent against the opening: "You don't belong here…"_

_Her throat was raw and sore as if she were shrieking with terror, but she produced no sound. A clammy hand wrapped around the nape of her neck, holding her rigid as the face morphed again into one which was discernible . . . and chillingly familiar.: "__I won't touch Barton, not until I make him kill you - slowly, intimately, in every way he knows you fear. And then he'll wake just long enough to see his good work, and when he screams, __**I'll split his skull**_…"

She woke with Loki's final threat ringing in her consciousness, the words so tangible that they echoed throughout the interior of the vehicle, her chest heaving with exertion.

*. * *. *

"My brother has not always been so unreasonable," Thor responded grudgingly. This conversation was not one that he was particularly fond of having, although he found himself having it more frequently than he had in years past. "There were times when he was very nearly tolerable," he reasoned with a faraway hint of a smile playing on his lips.

"I'm not disputing that," answered Tony matter-of-factly. He was tinkering with some parts of the Mark Whatever-He-Was-Up-To-Now just to give his hands an outlet for his nervous energy. "Even I'm tolerable sometimes," he reasoned. "I just want to know if you were ever close."

"Close to what?" the Asgardian replied.

"To each other."

"Of course … we were often in proximity to one another." The awkward press of his eyebrows betrayed that Thor was still not fully comprehending.

"Okay," Tony laughed slyly, "so that's not a term you use in Super Space-Viking World. Let me rephrase: were you ever really friends? Best buds? Inseparable and such?"

Thor's eyes finally cleared. For an instant, he seemed pleased that he finally understood the mortal's turn of phrase, but the satisfaction was soon tempered with a wistful sorrow. "I wish I knew precisely how to answer that, Mr. Stark."

"'Tony,' please, for at least the hundredth time. No 'Mr. Stark' while you're staying under my roof and putting enormous strain on most of my extremely pretentious furnishings, I might add. What are you guys made out of, anyway? Dark matter?" The human wiped the trails of grease from his hands as he walked and spoke. He paused by the steel counter of the bar in the corner of his workshop and pulled a root beer from the refrigerator. "You want a drink, your Godliness? Non-alcoholic, while I'm working, of course. So I don't lose any fingers." He proudly indicated that he currently still had all of his digits by rippling them playfully in front of his face.

"No, thank you, Mister - Tony," the larger man answered hesitantly. After centuries of living in a royal court, it was not exactly simple to drop formalities, but he would attempt it since the mortal continued to insist.

"Well, at least 'Mr. Tony' is progress," Stark chirped. He expertly pried the cap from his beverage with a nearby flathead screwdriver. "_Sláinte_," he said, tipping the neck towards Thor as he knocked back a satisfying gulp. "But don't let me change the subject - I was making you uncomfortable by bringing up the sensitive matter of your creepy, horned space-brother."

"Indeed you were," Thor conceded.

"The one who tried to assassinate you, failed, and then killed himself instead," Tony continued indifferently.

The Asgardian nodded weakly.

"Except he wasn't dead, he was just off in some other dimension becoming completely deranged." Stark crossed back over to the suit pieces which were waiting patiently to be assembled. "Then he came back with an alien army and tried to conquer your girlfriend's home planet, which also failed. Whereafter he saved the life of you and said girlfriend while sacrificing himself to prove that he wasn't completely insane or evil."

Thor was nodding along in agreement to all of these statements, albeit with an expression of quiet melancholy.

"Which all turned out to be a lie, wherein he humiliated you by impersonating your father and then escaping from custody with several key holdings from Asgard's Weapons Vault of Ultimate Awesomeness. Is this all pretty close to the mark?"

"Indeed," the blonde man huffed, petulantly.

"So, then . . . were you ever close to the little sociopath or not?"

Natasha was just rounding the corner towards the workshop when she overheard the two men conversing. "Subtle, Stark," she chastised him in a whisper. She paused before she entered, hoping that Thor would answer the question before she was forced to interrupt. Or that he would at least throw Tony around comically in a rage from the slight to his sibling.

"Again, I must say that the inquiry is not a simple one to which to respond," said the deeper voice diplomatically. "We have known each other for centuries. There were decades during which we hardly acknowledged one another, and then there were others when we never went a day without being in one another's company. I presume that we have been both the warmest of confidantes and the most distant of strangers, depending on which point in time you choose to analyze."

"And the bitterest of enemies," Stark offered.

"That time has been very brief in the entirety of our existence. Overall, Lo-" The abruptness of his pause was too distinct to dismiss; it was obvious that even saying his brother's name was freshly wounding to him. ". . . my brother," he persevered, "has been very dear to me. I do not always understand him and the workings of his brilliant mind . . . "

"Okay, I'm going to have to stop you there, my huge, blonde friend," Stark interjected. "I mean, I know you could break me in half with your eyebrows, but I have get this off of my chest - _brilliant?"_

"Most certainly," retorted Thor.

"You mean that in a 'fine line between genius and madness' way, right?"

"I know this must be difficult for you to fathom due to the relative length of your lifespan, but L-" The warrior governed his hurt more deftly this time, connecting his sentence almost seamlessly. " . . . he has been my adversary for just a few years, and my little brother for more than a thousand. The difference was instantaneous, a point where his mind fractured rapidly, and he changed from light to shadow in a moment as brief as the taking of a breath. It has been . . . mystifying to me."

"So, I have to ask," Tony challenged his alien cohort, "if you were to meet him again - in combat, of course - could you kill him?"

There was a strained silence during which Natasha leaned in to detect the sounds of Tony being thrown, struck, or chortled, but there was only a lingering stillness, threatening in its absolute calm. Finally, the Asgardian gave his measured response. "If I had to . . . yes."

"Forgive me if I question your sincerity, big guy," the human went on, "but you have let him stab you in the heat of battle - point blank, no less - and escape. Plus, when you answered, you hesitated."

"Do not misunderstand, Mr. Stark, I have no lingering trust in him. I know that he is not the man he once was, but I do not think he is irredeemable. However, I would not allow him to harm any of you," Thor stated with all sincerity. "If it came down to destroying him to save one of you, I would do what must be done."

"But what about yourself, Thor?" Stark continued to prod. "If it came down to him or you - what then? You're grappling with the fate of a realm - or maybe all of them - and he starts giving you the puppy eyes, brimming with 'I promised I've changed, baby' tears . . . I mean, I'm sorry, but I have zero confidence that you would drive your magic hammer right through that 'brilliant' skull of his."

Natasha leaned towards the entrance in anticipation of the Thunder God's response but was first startled by a voice at her back. "Would you like me to announce you, Agent Romanov?" asked J.A.R.V.I.S. from an unseen speaker in the hall.

"No, thank you, J.A.R.V.I.S. I'm sure Tony is well aware that I'm here by now," she answered, drily.

"Indeed, Agent Romanov. He has asked me if you would liked to be 'played in' with some classic rock 'n roll?"

It was borderline adorable how the refined computerized intonation had overemphasized the '_n'_ in rock 'n roll, like a sophisticated aristocrat trying to seem current with the lingo. "What did he have in mind?" she smirked.

"He has recommended 'Killer Queen,' if you are amenable."

"You know, I would prefer something a little smoother and a lot more flattering," she suggested, trying not to show how put off she was by not knowing where to look while addressing a bodiless voice.

"Then I would go with 'Black Magic Woman,'" Tony interjected, his head popping suddenly into the hall from the workshop entrance. "I wasn't aware that you were going to be dropping by, Agent Romanov." The tone was more than a little accusing.

"I wasn't expecting to have to drop by, Stark, but I have a pressing matter to take up with Captain Rogers." She had not intended to fold her arms in such a guarded fashion as she spoke, but it had just happened. "Is he here?"

"Currently, he is out running in Central Park with your work husband, which I am sure is not attracting any unwanted attention whatsoever." Natasha had heard rumours that Steve was being dogged by paparazzi while on his leave from active duty, which would have been laughable if he wasn't such a painfully private person.

"By 'work husband' I assume you mean Agent Barton?" Her imagination was filled with an amusing image of Clint literally being circled by a superhumanly fast Captain America. "I don't really remember him being much of a runner, though."

Tony ushered her into his workspace with an amusing flourish. "Well, the way they do it, Cap goes for a run around Central Park, and all the bloodthirsty photogs get pegged in the head with rubber-tipped arrows. But no one ever sees where they come from."

"Funny, that," she mused. _Now that sounded more like the Clint she knew. _

Stark steered her gently towards the sitting area, where Thor was still taking up an entire loveseat on his own. He rose courteously when he saw her enter, hand extended in a warm greeting, and his features dominated by the fullest, most sincere smile Natasha had ever seen. She was reticent to grasp the hand he offered as she was fairly certain that her own would be ground into powder by the Asgardian's strength; however, she was pleasantly surprised when she found his grip to be gentle, bringing her knuckles to his lips for a surprisingly tender kiss. "It is a pleasure to see you again, my Lady," he murmured.

She waited a few beats in case his head happened to suffer any rubber-tipped arrows before she responded. "Thank you," she smiled cautiously. "Please, call me Natasha."

"Good luck with that," Tony chided. "But in her case, you may as well use her first name. I worked with this one before that messy business in New York, and, I assure you, she is not a lady."

"I would dispute that," Thor said in return. "She is not gentle or yielding, but, then, that describes most of the ladies where I come from."

"I appreciate you defending my honor, Thor, but I'm going to have to agree with Tony on this one," the Agent admitted. "I don't exactly have the integrity or breeding of a lady."

"Well, then we will have to remain respectfully at odds on the matter," the enormous man said graciously. If it was possible, his grin became even wider, his face practically glowing. "I have fought by your side and would be proud to do so again."

Tony's hand snaked over her left shoulder, uninvited. "Yeah, he would even kill his brother for you if he had to. It's all very chivalrous of him," he whispered over her shoulder. If Thor heard the man's taunt, he did not acknowledge it. "Which leads me back to the original conversation we were having before we were so cagily interrupted, involving the Sibling of Mischief and Lies . . ."

"Tony," Natasha said forcefully, brushing his grip from her shoulder. "You should ease up a little on the brother-bashing, okay?"

"Who's defending whose honor, now, Agent Romanov?" Stark teased. He flopped down gracelessly into a recliner and wiped his brow with the sweating bottle of root beer.

"I just think you should tone down the snarkiness. He told you that he has a centuries-old relationship with Loki, and that he turned evil practically overnight. Haven't you ever cared about anyone enough to understand how conflicting that must be? To have the fate of others potentially hinge on the death of someone you once loved?" The words came tumbling out faster than Natasha could consider them, and as she heard them, she knew they both realized that Tony probably did not have a base of reference for this - but that she did. The weight of her words was deepened by the too-lengthy silence which followed, and Tony's face was taught with anticipation.

"_I _have," came an answer from the entryway. A sweaty, sullen Captain Rogers was leaning in the doorframe, dressed in a navy blue t-shirt and dark gray sweats which both closely hugged his muscled frame. "And I think that Natasha does, also." His voice was so measured that the effect calmed her immediately. "We've both had very close friends who became the enemy, and we had to struggle with what the outcome might be. It doesn't mean we cared any less for who they used to be."

Stark's posture deflated, and the softening of his features from arrogant to accepting was likely as close to an apology as she would likely ever receive from him. "Well, I suppose if Pepper became a powerful supervillain, I would be loathe to do her in." He was trying to be humorous, but his sad tone of submission made the effect seem strained. "Although, if Pepper became a supervillain, the planet would be, in fact, doomed," he added, gently.

Throughout this discourse, the Asgardian had been sitting quietly, hands folded beneath his chin, his face unreadable. Certainly, he had every right and reason to be irritable, and yet he remained placid and unmoving, his eyes seeming to chase images from long ago. When he sensed the lull in the discussion and all focus upon him in anticipation of his response, he raised his face wearily. "Truly, my friends, I have come to terms with the fate of my wicked brother," he sighed in answer to the unasked question. "Although I may never truly reconcile him with the person I once knew."

Despite her recent encounter with Loki in her nightmare - and compounded by the torments he had delivered upon Clint - Natasha was moved by the obvious affection that Thor still held for him. It was more out of compassion for the large, merciful man before her than any pity she could ever hold for that traitorous wretch that urged her to go on. She rested a hand tenderly on his knee and looked up into his gaze with all the earnestness she could convey. "I would like to hear about him someday - the Loki you knew," she breathed, and she so wanted him to believe her.

But nothing could have been further from the truth.


	7. Part II: Anger Chapter 2

-2-

The rat-like man had been confined to this 10-foot by 10-foot enclosure for nearly a week now, and he was beginning to adapt willfully to the routine. Every day or so, the cell door would open, one of many similarly dressed men or women in black uniforms would come and ask him for information, and he would feed them tiny bits of whatever they wanted to know. It never improved his situation, but it didn't exactly make it any worse for him, either; plus, he was fed minimal amounts of slightly palatable food and allowed artificial light for 12 hours of the day. All in all, it was better than he had been treated in years.

In this particular instance, the prisoner was sitting in pitch darkness, fingering the outline of the shackles on his wrist and memorizing every unseen detail of the metal. He had no superhuman strength with which to break them, although he was strong as any man on Earth could hope to be. He did not possess any superior intelligence-at least not anymore-which would help him come up with an escape plan. He found himself in a familiar predicament, at the mercy of someone else's intentions with only a scant amount of information with which to bargain. The situation was so recognizable that he felt completely at ease in this cramped, dark, subterranean chamber. Besides, he really didn't have any urgent need to see his surroundings-it was a cell like any other, with a bed, a table, and a chair, plus meager toilet facilities. His keen senses of smell and hearing were far more useful to him in most places these days, anyway.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the metal door being unclasped. A thin beam of light flooded in from the hallway, and his eyes stung briefly before adjusting to the onslaught. A figure then stepped into the blackness, only his outline visible due to the brightness which framed him. He was not a particularly tall or imposing man from what could be determined from his form, and he stood in anticipatory silence for several moments before he finally cleared his throat and spoke.

"Mr. Whelan?" the obscured man asked calmly. As he said these words, the fluorescent lighting above their heads buzzed into life, and the prisoner found himself temporarily blinded again. He had spent enough time in dark places, however, that the discomfort was minimal. He nodded in response to the inquiry.

"I am Agent Coulson with S.H.I.E.L.D.," the man went on. He smirked then as if he had made an inside joke. "Well, I guess you probably know who I'm with. Force of habit. I once answered the phone at my mother's house that way, and, boy, was her Medicare case manager confused." He gave a gentle snort which the captive did not share. "Anyway, I am here to . . . "

"Ask me a few questions," the rat-man finished testily. "I know. Please, sit down, Agent Coulson." Although he had said 'please,' the tone was anything but welcoming.

There was only one chair, metal and welded together so that no fasteners could be loosened and thereby be accessible to the incarcerated. It sat at the point furthest away from the prisoner, who was shackled to his bunk. "I'll just sit here, then, shall I?" the Agent replied, indicating the solitary chair.

Again, the other man maintained a look of sour disinterest.

"Mr. Whelan . . . " Coulson began, and was quickly interrupted by the man he addressed.

"Vermin," he said coldly.

"I'm sorry? I don't follow."

"Call me 'Vermin,'" the rat-man clarified impatiently. "No one calls me 'Whelan.'" _Not anymore, _he added internally. Somehow, that thought still saddened him, even though the memories of the time before he became this creature were ambiguous to him now, as if he had experienced them through a fever.

"Suit yourself, Mr. . . Vermin," the Agent stated uncomfortably. "I need to request some more information of you. It seems your friend, Mr. Blackout-"

Vermin chuckled at the use of the title in reference to his acquaintance.

"Blackout," Coulson corrected himself, "has ceased to offer his cooperation in our investigation into the incident at the Raft. . . "

"I've told you what I know," the captive snapped with an air of finality.

"You've been most helpful, yes," the suited man went on, "but we need to know a little more about who might have been behind the prison break. You see, we have determined that whoever was directing the breakout is of extraterrestrial origin . . . " Well, they had not determined that definitively, but he was hoping that this little conversation would confirm it. " . . . and I need to know who that alien mastermind might be." He raised his eyebrows at Vermin hopefully. It was a long shot, he knew, but the prisoner had been privy to part of what Blackout knew since they were . . . friends, of a sort, he supposed.

The rat-man's eyes lifted carefully, and the agent's heart paused for a hopeful moment as he spoke: "I don't know who it was."

_Well, that was anticlimactic_, Coulson thought, balefully. To his delight, however, the prisoner continued, "I don't know who let us out. I _do_ know who Blackout was working for before he was captured. I doubt it was the same person."

"An alien?" the agent asked. He was leaning forward as if feeding off the words that Vermin was dropping in such small helpings.

"Oh, yes. And Blackout was loyal to him, at least until recently."

"Tell me," Coulson said too eagerly.

"Well . . . " the rodentine being drawled, his fingers tapping lightly on the steel post of his bunk, "I might be able to tell you . . . but I just can't remember his name right now."

_Disappointing, but not unexpected. _"Would you be willing to listen to an audio recording and tell us if you recognize either speaker? Or the language, for that matter?" The agent hoped he wasn't tipping his hand by revealing that the language was unknown to them, but that could hardly be changed now.

"I'm through talking about the Raft," Vermin said disinterestedly. "I just want to speak to Blackout." He was picking at the skin around his pointed and elongated nails.

_Okay, time to change the subject and then circle back to the main point at the appropriate time. _"What about Kaal? Does he know whose idea this was?"

"I don't know Kaal," the prisoner answered, his eyes glazing over with progressive indifference. "Ask Blackout about Kaal."

"We have, and he is no longer cooperating." The interrogator sighed as if he had expected this outcome all along. He skimmed a hand along the top of his hairline in momentary consideration of how, or even _if, _to continue. "Mr. Whelan, if there is anything we can do to assist you in remembering . . . " Agent Coulson began, but he was abruptly cut off by the prisoner.

"I want to see Blackout!" he shrieked, pounding his closed fist on the blunt end of the bedpost, the pink tinge of his skin deepening to a full-on red with his anger. "And there is no Mr. Whelan!" he howled violently. His arms strained against the pull of the shackles on his wrists, but the metal resisted the enormous strain beautifully. He spat and seethed in his enraged state, continuing to pull against his restraints until the effort looked quite painful. Then the rage passed within the space of a few seconds, and he sat back against the wall of his bunk, heaving, as his face turned slowly more passive and his breathing evened.

"Edward Whelan is dead," he muttered, finally. "All that's left is a monster."

Coulson had vacated his chair and backed up several paces during the outburst, his back meeting the wall and his hand hovering over the holster of his weapon. "I meant no disrespect," the agent said breathlessly, withdrawing his hand tentatively from his hip. "Truly, it's just that, well, we dwell on formalities at government agencies. It's really hard to call someone something so casual." The prisoner had gone slack against the end of his bunk, and he was no longer responding to the presence of the other man. "Let us help you. If you can tell us anything about Blackout's extraterrestrial contacts, or if you know _anything_ about who might have been behind these prison breaks, I could arrange some privileges for you in exchange for that information."

Vermin was no longer listening to what Coulson was telling him; he sat dead-eyed and limp, his lips moving soundlessly with what appeared to be a litany of inaudible words. Whatever he was saying, they were spoken for himself alone, and the agent felt sharply ignored.

"I'll just let myself out then," he indicated sardonically.

The whispering became slightly louder then, and Coulson thought he could make out several words in repetition: "Not him . . . only Thanos. Just Thanos . . . not him, not him . . . "

"Okay, then," the agent finished awkwardly. "I thank you for your violent-and weird-cooperation." He backed himself up to the entrance door and rapped quickly on the rough metal to indicate he was ready to come out.

*. * *. *

After the agent had departed, the being once known as Edward Whelan continued to repeat the words he had been reproducing for several minutes. It was a prayer to the unseen voice who had been invading his subconscious for the last few days, the one that promised him freedom if he would help to destroy those who had used him so selfishly as a means to their own ends. Still, he could not agree to the destruction of the one friend he had left: Blackout had looked out for him when no one else would, even if he had been so blatantly utilized as a pawn in his schemes. No, he would not agree to help the voice murder his only companion. He would not, he would not, he would not . . .

Not him . . . only Thanos. Just Thanos . . . not him . . .

*. * *. *

Upon exiting the cell, Agent Coulson walked swiftly back to the main control room. He leaned calmly against the nearest workstation and considered his current options. What had he really gained in the last 48 hours? An audio clip in a language no one could decipher, the name of an intergalactic prisoner with a Titan-sized chip on his shoulder, and one word mumbled by a self-proclaimed monster. . . _Thanos. _ The same name as the Titan so reviled by the mysterious hooded psychopath, and no one was giving up the goods on him. Still, there was perhaps one being currently (hopefully) on Earth who had some knowledge of interstellar affairs, and he just might be familiar with someone so notoriously bad-ass. He pulled out his mobile phone and selected a contact. When the voice on the other end answered with formal politeness, Coulson asked him quite bluntly: "J.A.R.V.I.S.? Is there a Thunder God anywhere in the facility?"

"Yes, Thor Odinson is currently residing at this address."

_Damn, why hadn't he thought to do this before?_ "Can you put him on, please? It's kind of important."

"I will locate him immediately. Please hold." The line was briefly silent and then some soothing music began to play. It took several moments before Coulson could place the tune: it was a harp arrangement of 'Enter Sandman.' The agent tapped his foot along with the melody appreciatively. After what seemed to be an eternal wait, the music finally ended abruptly.

"What do I say?" came a deep voice, somewhat muffled by movement on the other end of the call.

"'Hello', Thor," responded someone else - obviously Stark.

"Hello?" This answer was still muddled.

"Not to me, big guy - into the phone."

"Hello?" This time the word was clear and of greater volume.

"Hi, um, Thor?" It was embarrassing to admit, but Phil was actually a little anxious about speaking to this supernatural being-who was regarded by some as a deity-over a palm-sized mobile device. "This is Agent Coulson of S.H.-"

"Agent Coulson! How can this be? What manner of device is this which can speak to the deceased?" The powerful and sincere timbre of his words left Coulson wondering if he should not just pretend to still be dead in order to appease the mighty warrior.

"It's a long, horrible story, sir. You wouldn't want to hear it right now. I have far more important questions which need to be answered, and I think you might be able to help me."

"I shall do my best." Thor sounded truly honored that such a favor would be asked of him. "How long can we communicate like this?" he asked without pretense. "It must take considerable energy to conjure up a spirit from the afterlife."

The muted sound of the phone being taken from Thor was heard, and then Tony Stark was heard again faintly, saying, "Okay, it's time to level with you, Hammertime. Coulson's not dead. He's just calling you over a regular cell phone, and the signal is being beamed from one point on the Earth to another point on the Earth via an ordinary, boring, old satellite. K?" There was a pause during which Thor presumably indicated his answer. "Carry on," Tony finished.

"How may I assist you, Mr. Agent Coulson?" Thor asked in a more subdued tone.

It was disheartening that he had been stripped of all the awe he had held just moments before, but Phil continued. "I'm going to play a little game of Interstellar Word-Association with you, okay?"

There was no response.

"He can't hear the rocks in your head! You are going to have to speak!" Tony chided him in the background.

"Um . . . I was nodding to indicate the affirmative," Thor stated.

Oh, this was too much. He was going to have to drunk-dial this guy when the fate of the entire planet wasn't hanging so precariously in the balance. "Okay, first word: 'Kaal.'"

"I'm sorry. It doesn't mean anything to me."

"He would have been a prisoner at an intergalactic prison facility. Kind of crazy - very deadly." Coulson clarified hopefully.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know him."

The agent's heart was starting to beat rapidly in his chest, as if he knew for certain that the next word was going to bring a response - and he was not sure if he was elated or devastated. "Okay, second word: 'Thanos.'"

"Where did you hear this?" Thor boomed back immediately.

"From a prisoner in our custody. We have reason to believe that whoever bears that name was involved in the release of several high-level prisoners, and the death of many others."

"Here? On Midgard?" The Asgardian's voice had raised an octave with what was probably trepidation.

"Yes, sir. On Earth."

There was a painfully protracted silence during which the only sound was the Thunderer's labored breathing. "I do not believe it," he murmured eventually, almost as if he were speaking to someone else entirely.

"Thor?" Coulson prodded. "I'm going to need to know who that is."

"He is a monster," Thor said forthrightly.

"There's a lot of that going around," Phil added. "Would you be able to tell me what manner of monster we might be dealing with here?"

"He is an Eternal, a race with which you have had no contact, I believe. Yet he is also a Deviant, a mutant member of the species who is stronger and more formidable than his counterparts. He is powerful, ruthless, and all but unstoppable."

Coulson didn't miss a beat. "So should I be concerned that he is raising an army of lunatic killing machines from all corners of the universe?"

"Most assuredly."

"Noted." Coulson exhaled slowly, unsure of how to use the information now that he had it.

"Would this be an opportune moment to also express that he is mentally unstable, and he wishes to cause as many fatalities across the galaxies as possible?"

"Sure." The agent sighed. "Why not?" His hand was now plastered to the curve of his forehead in distress.

"If his interest has fallen upon Midgard, then I am most concerned. You are possibly-and by this I mean no offense, Son of Coul-the realm least capable of repelling him. When he launches an offensive against a world, he goes for total annihilation of its native species."

"I'm not offended," Phil assured him. "I'm just . . . a little overwhelmed right now. I mean, you wake up in the morning thinking that Hydra is the worst possible thing that could happen to your planet, and then suddenly you're launched headlong into a supernatural cluster - thing," he ended, adeptly switching gears at the end to avoid the obscenity.

"Mr. Coulson, I should also inform you that Thanos has shown more than a lingering interest in the Tesseract in the past . . . "

"Well, at least that is something we don't have to worry about in this case. It's safe in Asgard, right?"

There was an extended pause which became awkward and then quickly advanced to alarming.

"Right, Thor?"

Still dead air.

"Look, Thor, I really need you to give me some good news here, buddy. I just learned that my home planet may be next in line for destruction by an alien madman, so please don't tell me that a weapon of potentially infinite power has gone missing right before we suffer an extraterrestrial attack."

"I . . . um, I am dreadfully sorry, but the Tesseract is no longer in Asgard."

_Well, he was wondering how this could possibly get any worse. He supposed that was as good an answer as any. _"I'm afraid to ask you what happened right now. The way this conversation is going you are probably going to tell me that it's in the hands of some crazy sorcerer or something . . . "

Another telling silence.

"Oh god . . . " Coulson groaned. "What happened?"

"Well, there was much that transpired, but the summarization would be that Loki impersonated my father by taking his form for a time, and was therefore able to abscond with the Tesseract."

"Swell."

". . . among other things . . . "

"Alright, Thor, I think I've heard enough for one night. If I keep talking to you, the world will be over by the end of the six o'clock news." The agent's palm had begun to sweat profusely, and he was having difficulty keeping the smooth metal from sliding out of his grip. "Take care okay?"

"I am sorry that I could not have been more helpful."

"I appreciate that."

"And I am also deeply sorry that my brother killed you."

"Thanks, Thor. Bye-bye now." Coulson ended the call before any more disturbing sentiments could be expressed. He lowered the phone with a defeated gasp, concentrating exclusively on breathing for several minutes. He then raised the phone in front of his face and stared blankly into the screen; then after several moments more, he pressed and held the button on its face. A pleasant beep resounded in the now empty control room, and then he said, "Siri? Where is the nearest liquor store?"

**.**.**

"What was that all about?" Stark asked as Thor stood stagnant, his enormous hand still gently grasping the mobile phone. "What's the matter: super-secret government agency got your tongue?"

The Asgardian recovered slowly from his torpor and placed the device complacently back in Stark's outstretched hand. "I don't know how to tell you this, Mr. Stark-Tony," he caught himself absently. "But your world is in grave danger." '

"Around here, we call that 'Tuesday.' Seriously, my friend, a world in peril is just another day in paradise for us." Tony had to stand on tiptoe to place a comforting hand on Thor's shoulder, but he did it without humility. "Still, you seem really put out. Can I offer you a shoulder to cry on? Unless, of course, your tears weight as much as a mid-sized sedan, in which case, Captain Spangly Pants would be more than happy to let you lean on him."

"I need some time alone, if you would." The mighty god sank helplessly into the nearest chair, his eyes glassy.

"That serious, huh?" Tony folded his arms, his look suddenly softening. "Would you like me to bring you a drink or four?" When Thor did not respond, Stark finally realized the gravity of the situation.

"Hey . . . what's up?" Stark offered more gently.

Thor absently ran his fingers back through his loose blonde locks. "One of the cruelest, most powerful beings in existence may be targeting your planet for elimination."

"Oh," Tony replied,emotionless. "So, Manhattan all over again."

Thor shook his head weakly. "Not exactly. I do not think that all the powers in Asgard could hinder Thanos. Perhaps not all the Nine Realms together."

"Oh," the human remarked again just as flatly. "So, bar crawl then? That's when you consume alcoholic beverages in a series of different establishments until you have to crawl home," Tony explained.

"Perhaps later," the blonde sighed. "Currently I must try to steel myself for an errand I hoped I would never have to perform again."

"Can I help?" Tony asked. "I mean, whatever gets us closer to the bar crawl . . . "

"No," Thor replied emphatically. "This I must do alone." He crossed over to the nearby window where the skyline of New York City was laid out magnificently at his feet. At last, he breathed: "I need to find my brother."


	8. Part II: Anger Chapter 3

-3-

_1097 A.D., Northwest of Västerås, Sweden, Along the Svartån River_

Loki elongated the line of his body, stretching his arms almost cruelly taught above his head. The motion eased the tension in his vertebrae, and he sighed with the painful release he received. It was liberating to be so unburdened, having shed the metal and leather of his armor after the battle. He now stood poised on the bank of the river, its waters cool and smooth as mirrored glass, and it beckoned him in with the promise of soothed aches and cares borne away upon the still surface that flowed at his feet. He dipped a probing toe into the depths, watching intently at the ripple caused by this disturbance, following it outwards into the dark line where the twilight met the waves. He ventured a satisfied smile that he was certain no one would witness before he dove in, and his lithe form broke the pristine topmost layer of the water with elegant precision.

As he returned to the surface, he twisted onto his back, relaxing all of his muscles so that he floated with his face to the darkening sky above, its hues maroon and indigo and sprinkled with the first few evening stars. He stroked lazily backwards along the water, eyes closed and savoring the stillness of the crisp evening. If any of the villagers happened to spy him, he knew that there would be questions; the river was too chilled for a human to tolerate, and the weight of the sodden breeches and tunic he still wore should have been nearly pulling him under. Yet he was a god-at least so far as these mortals were concerned-and he was able to endure far more than was possible for their kind. If fortune was with him, he should be able to float unseen for a few minutes more.

The lean Asgardian had already been seen, however, and a figure continued to observe him undetected. Thor had come down to the river to wash off the blood and sweat from the battle they had just endured, and he had not expected to find his brother already here, particularly not in such an assailable position. Although the pair had had decades to grow accustomed to one another, the elder man still found his sibling to be such a strange creature: careful where he himself was reckless and guarded where the Thunderer was bold. More often than not, they still gave one another a wide berth inside the palace and socialized only at feasts and festivals. They were simply too contradictory, and their encounters were strained. Thor just could not find any warmth or welcome in his brother's ways which made him eager to seek him out.

He opted not to disturb Loki, partially because he wanted him to remain relaxed (since he was seldom so) and also because he did not want them to have another awkward confrontation. The blonde knelt cautiously on the bank and splashed the frigid water over his forearms with as little noise as he could he manage; meanwhile, his brother continue to float along the current, only occasionally propelling himself with a long, lazy drag of his limbs. Eventually, the draw of the flow led him to a pocket by the far bank where his prone body lay motionless against the shore, in the shadow of a small figure that he had not yet discerned. When his eyes fluttered open, the pale Asgardian became aware of the person standing over him on the shore: a fair-haired girl not more than seven years of age. His sudden awareness seemed to surprise them both, and they gasped simultaneously.

From his vantage point on the opposite bank, Thor chuckled softly and paused his ministrations with the water in order to witness the scene unfolding before him more closely. Loki was now crouching in the stream, and the elder man could see that his shoulders shuddered with unheard laughter. The child had skittered backwards several steps in her apprehension. She was covered head-to-toe in furs and skins, and even at her tender age, she was wary of one who did not feel the sharpness of the air in this far northern clime.

"Do not be afraid," he heard Loki laugh. "I do not wish you any harm."

The girl kept her distance, her stance defensive.

"Please-" he smiled. "I won't hurt you. It's just that you startled me." His words contained a hint of kindness that Thor had not heard before. He found himself straining to see and hear more of the interaction between these two dissimilar beings. To Thor's astonishment, Loki appeared to be gentle and genuinely amiable towards the tiny human. "Please," he encouraged her again, "Come down to the water. There is no reason to fear." He rose to his feet then, standing aside with a deferring bow.

The child remained vigilant, but she sidestepped the larger figure and cautiously approached the edge of the river. She held a wooden bucket in one hand, and she gripped it protectively in the small of her back as she passed the man, facing him at all times. Her eyes were wide with unease, but she overcame her fear to kneel by the waterfront, constantly aware of the stranger's location, but Loki did not move to hinder her, observing her movements from afar with amused consideration. She was forced to turn away for an instant while she dipped the bucket in the cold current, and when she pivoted to draw the full and now more cumbersome vessel out from the murky depths, the silt beneath her feet shifted and caused her to slip perilously towards the stream. Her throat could barely loose a rudimentary cry before a firm grip pulled her back to solid ground.

"Are you alright?" he asked tenderly, but she pulled her forearm away from his grasp as if she had been seared by it. "You should not be out here alone. Do you not know that these woods are treacherous for one so small and unprotected?"

The girl continued to stare at him mutely as if gazing upon a predator. It was several moments before she realized that the bucket lay upended at her feet, the contents running back towards the river. She looked urgently torn between completing her errand and fleeing from the outsider. In the end, she merely stood transfixed to the spot.

"May I help you?" Loki offered softly. He appeared to be both wounded and amused by her fear of him, and he looked determined to win her trust. He crossed gingerly over to the fallen object, slow and deliberate in his movements so as not to raise any further alarm in the youngster. "Why are you out here unaccompanied?" he said, in an attempt at conversation which was presumably an effort to calm her. He swiftly refilled the bucket and extended it towards the girl.

"My-my brothers," she stammered. "They dared me to go to fetch the water on-on my own."

"Ah, yes . . . brothers," he lamented. "I know how that can be."

"You have brothers?" she answered hesitantly.

"Just one," he smiled. "But I do not think he is very fond of me."

Although the sentiment was likely deserved, Thor could not help but be stung a bit by this confession. He realized that it was a show of ego to expect someone to like you when you have made no effort to forge a bond, but it was hurtful all the same. They simply did not share the same interests or hold similar views about . . . well, almost anything. Still, there were millennia left to rectify this error-regardless of whose transgression it truly was.

"They were cruel to send you out here alone," Loki continued. "They might have endangered you." There was no malice in these words, but his expression betrayed that the thoughts in his head were quite active. "Surely they must have known that these waters are magical?" he asked with a sly tilt of his head.

Her jaw fell open in innocent disbelief.

"I see in your face that you doubt me, but it is true. Here, come see for yourself." He coaxed her over with a fluid motion, and she stepped toward him, tentative but curious. As she approached the shore, a dim pulse of light became visible along the water's edge. The evening had all but yielded to a moonless night, and the eerie greenish glow was reflected fully by both of their faces as they were spied from afar. Loki leaned over the ghostly shimmer, and it caused the phosphorescence to reflect in his eyes. He did look like a spectral vision from this distance, the light dancing along the lenses of his irises, his lips slightly parted in concentration. He circled his fingers nimbly over the surface, and in the reflection Thor could see that the trails of luminescence were mirroring the movement. The child took two steps closer, her mouth now fully agape and her eyes so wide they appeared to be lidless.

The seemingly young man then withdrew his hand, and immediately figures rose out of the swirls of light-green-tinted forest creatures each as large as the girl herself, turning in the same roiling pattern as before. Each one moved within its own sphere as the true animal would-hopping, darting, pawing, bearing radiant teeth-until he swept his arm over it in another fluid motion, and they all dissolved back into the blackened depths below. They were replaced now by fantastical creatures, some which Thor recognized from their home in Asgard and others which existed only in the mystical legends of Midgard. This time, the small, blonde mortal raised her hands to her cover her mouth, so overcome with awe that she was nearly forgetting to draw breath.

"Can I-can I touch them?" she murmured. It was unclear whether she was aware that she had spoken. Loki only nodded in response. She moved timidly forward and stretched out her elfin fingers; Thor could see even from this vantage point that they trembled. Just as the tips made contact with the closest gleaming creature, the entire illusion dissipated in a frenzy of sparkling dust which cascaded ethereally back onto the surface of the river, glowing brighter and then fading away gently like the pulse of a firefly. The child's entire body quivered with her uncontainable joy, and she giggled as loudly as if she meant the Gods to hear her. "That was amazing!" she gushed, and her palms flew up to cover her mouth again.

Loki chuckled also, his cheeks burning with self-satisfaction. "I am honored that you think so," he replied, handing her back the bucket which was brimming with cool water. "However, now you must repay me."

The fear played briefly again upon her visage, but she managed to keep it in check.

"When you return to the village, be certain that your wicked brothers look into the magic water that you have brought back to them, in penance for the peril they have forced you to endure."

She nodded obediently, the trace of an impish grin upon her lips. As she turned away, he stopped her once more. "Oh, and be certain that as they do, you say this . . . " He cupped his hands around the shell of her tiny ear and whispered something. She nodded again and skipped off fearlessly in the direction of her home.

Loki lingered for several minutes on the riverbank, surveying the clear blanket of stars and running his hands through the sand on its shore, while Thor quietly finished his washing up and crept soundlessly away toward the horses and the battalion they had both recently departed. Nearly a quarter of an hour later, his brother returned from the scene of the incident they had both witnessed, his face still wearing an uncharacteristic grin. He was back in his armor, but it was a less ornate version of the mail he normally wore. The Asgardians were here to aid a clan of humans that had earned great favor with the Allfather, but he did not intend the mortals to know that their assistance was divine; therefore, the warriors had gone to great trouble to ensure that they looked as native to this realm as those men beside whom they fought.

Thor deliberately moved to his brother's side and clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder. "There you are, brother!" he said with almost too much enthusiasm. "I was wondering where you might have wandered off to!"

His sibling seemed startled, wincing somewhat at the sharp contact, but he did not pull away. "I went down to the river," he said with a hint of suspicion. "I wanted to wash up and . . . be alone." One eyebrow was cocked skeptically at his brother's sudden interest in his movements.

"And were you?"

"Was I what?" Loki shot back defensively.

"Were you alone? I would hate to think that the mortals may have seen you and recognized you for what you are." Thor tried to temper his deep, resounding voice so that their discourse remained between the two of them. He was challenging Loki, testing him to see if he would be forthcoming with what had been such a private moment. The response would determine if his brother harbored any trust in him at all.

"Oh, I was and was not," the younger man answered cryptically.

"How do you mean?" Thor pressed him.

"Honestly, Thor!" Loki crossed his arms haughtily. "I followed your footprints all the way back here! Only one hulking barbarian has feet that size, on or off of Midgard," he scolded.

Despite that fact the he had been so embarrassingly revealed, the larger man could not help but be impressed by his sibling's cunning . . . and pleased by his honesty.

"So, what did you tell the girl?" Thor pried as he nudged the slighter man playfully in his ribs.

"Nothing much," Loki shrugged. "Just having a bit of fun." And with that remark, he strode off back toward where their mounts were waiting for them, a subtle mischievous grin upon his lips.

Two important milestones had occurred that night. First, the local villagers received quite a fright when the spectral image of a brown bear rose out of an ordinary bucket of river water and terrified three young boys. When their sister was asked how this had been accomplished, she described a magician in the form of a young man who was resistant to cold and fatigue and who had given her the words to a magic spell. Thus, the legend of the God of Mischief was born to the northern lands,although later it became distorted and entwined with some other pieces of oral tradition. Secondly, the mighty Thor, Norse God of Thunder, decided that there was some value in his brother, something worth preserving.

Something worth saving.

*.**.*

_Present Day, Avengers' Tower (formerly Stark Tower) Manhattan, NYC_

Clint and Natasha were up into the early morning hours in the Avengers Tower's common rooms, catching up on old business and marathon-watching several seasons of the 'Amazing Race.' The other members of Earth's Mightiest Heroes were in and out, sometimes commenting on the action onscreen (Tony), and sometimes just sitting silently observing the interactions both on and offscreen (Steve). It wasn't until Tony was joyfully re-enacting what he thought Thor and Loki would be like as a pair of dysfunctional contestants that Clint finally began to show some of his notorious moodiness, and he excused himself curtly, grumbling about needing some fresh air while Stark continued his rather accurate performance. Natasha lingered for several minutes before guilt bade her to go after him.

"Hey, there you are," she said with an attempt to sound unassuming. Agent Barton was in the adjoining study and had not bothered to turn on any lighting; instead, he stood pensively in the glow from the ridiculous wall-length saltwater aquarium that Tony had demanded was necessary. Clint was hovering over the back of chair, his hands gripping the object with such force that she worried he might sever it from the lower half. He did not react to the sound of her voice so after a few more moments she approached cautiously and tried again. "Clint?" she asked, softly. His only response was a frustrated shake of his head.

"I just . . . " he tried to say, but then halted and dropped his head to stare at the furniture he was still holding like it was the anchor of his whole world. "I just can't, you know?"

Yeah, she knew. No one else on the entire planet would know, but she did, and that's why they were best friends. Or as close to best friends as two criminals turned top-level secret agents could be, anyway, seeing as how their profession was rooted in a lack of trust for other human beings. "Tony's an idiot," she replied calmly.

"Tony's a genius," Clint answered without raising his head.

"Not when it comes to people, Clint. Ask Pepper-she'll readily confirm that."

"Yeah, probably." He cracked a minimal smile, but it was agonizingly brief.

"Hey," she tried again, bridging the short distance between them by resting a hand gently on his forearm. He flinched, but he allowed the contact. Again, Natasha was absolutely certain that he would have endured such an intimate touch from no other person at that moment. "I know, okay? You don't have to waste a single second explaining yourself to me." She could feel the tension in the muscle beneath her fingers lessen somewhat.

"I just can't find the humor in all this, Nat," he said directly to the chair. "That . . . that evil son-of-a . . . " His inability to finish his thoughts only served to exasperate him further, and his knuckles whitened with the increased pressure. "He invaded my brain, rifled through my secrets, used all of my weaknesses against me. He-he made me kill other people-good people . . . "

Natasha nodded along silently although he was still looking downwards and could not see her agreement. He knew that she knew, and that was all that mattered. "I can tell you again that you were in no way responsible for all of that, but I know that you won't forgive yourself so I'll avoid it." She worked her hand up until it rested on his shoulder. "But, there is someone I think you should talk to."

He kicked the leg of the chair sullenly. "I'm not going back to a therapist, Nat, I told you that-"

"I know, I know." She backed off, her hands spread in a gesture of surrender. "I was talking about Thor, actually."

At that remark, he finally turned his face towards her with a look that was clearly one of shocked indignation. "Thor? The guy that still cares about that monster even though he has become the embodiment of evil? That Thor?"

She shrugged. How many other Thors did he know?

"I can't see how that would seem like a good idea to you, Natasha. He's just going to tell me that he's not so bad once you get to know him, even if he does try to enslave entire planets!"

"I hardly think so, Clint. Thor is not a fool. He's hopeless with Earth technology, but he is not a fool. If you need answers about what happened to you, he is the closest you will be able to get to hearing them from Loki himself." She watched carefully for a reaction to the use of the name, but she did not receive one. "Even if it changes nothing, at least you will have tried. It couldn't hurt."

Clint exhaled sharply. "Alright, Nat, I'll try. Since you think it could help." He was resigned to her suggestion, but his face was still austere. He was only doing this for her and not for himself, she realized, but if it did help in any way, it would be worth it.

"Okay, then-let's go." She soberly motioned towards the exit.

"What-now?" Clint shot back with annoyance.

"Yes, now," she insisted. "Thor will be leaving in the next few hours-to find his brother. If you don't ask him now, you may have to ask him in front of Loki when he returns. And that would be terribly awkward, wouldn't it?" .

The pair had found Thor in the 17th floor library, looking somber. Apparently there was a

certain amount of mental preparation required in going to find your snarky sidekick-turned- supervillain baby brother after he's come back from the dead-twice-and it was taking a noticeable toll on the usually unflappable Asgardian. His tortured demeanor was almost enough to cause Natasha to abandon this little project altogether, until she concluded that it could be beneficial for Thor as well as Clint. This escapade could turn out being a very therapeutic airing of resentments or a bad episode of a television talk-show, complete with furniture-throwing. Yet, there was never any healing without picking a little at the existing wounds.

So, what the hell.

Natasha stayed for the entire discourse at Thor's insistence; it seems that she was not the only one considered about the state of the furniture. In fact, she had actually had to bicker a little with the enormous, blonde man before he would agree to discuss anything regarding his brother in the presence of Agent Barton. In the end, the redhead was forced to pull out all the stops on her powers of persuasion in order to close the deal, but she managed it with only minimal episodes of raised voices. She then took a self-righteous seat in a corner wing-backed chair to provide whatever silent support either party might conceivably need.

The two men seated themselves on opposite sides of a well-cushioned, rust-colored sofa with a ludicrous amount of throw-pillows and stared each other down for several minutes without a word. Thor's eyebrows pressed together sympathetically, and he opened his mouth to speak. Clint immediately cut him off. "If you start off with an apology, you'll wish you hadn't," he snapped. It sounded uncharacteristically harsh even for him, but it was sincere enough that Thor's mouth actually closed in response. "You spend too much time apologizing for crimes that aren't your own," the human clarified. "I would appreciate it if you would neither be sorry for, nor downplay the severity of, what your . . . . _brother_ has done." There, the ground rules were laid, albeit venomously.

"That is fair," Thor admitted with a gentle nod of his head. As placid as he seemed on the surface, his front teeth were gnawing relentlessly on his bottom lip. "I will not defend him, but I will be honest even if it will not please you to hear the truth. What do you want to know?"

"You can't really tell me what I need to know, which is why I'm not sure why I'm even here," Clint huffed despondently, his hands finding his hair and lingering there.

From her vantage point in the far corner, Natasha cleared her throat forcefully.

"Oh, right. Because Nat thinks that this will be cathartic. And I trust her judgment," he finished, and his tone became more gentle at the last.

"You are wise to do so. She is a knowledgeable ally."

Hunched over before the bulky Asgardian, Clint appeared like a worried child who had been called to the principal's office. He still managed to meet his gaze in brief increments which was admirable.

"Do you consider her to be a good person?"

Clint's head snapped up suddenly as if he would dare the enormous man to suggest otherwise. "Of course I do," he answered without hesitation. "She is my closest friend. I l-" Clint's features went blank for a moment, like he was adrift at sea. "I like her very much," he finished as the stern mask came flooding back over his face.

_Well, that was interesting, _Natasha thought. She noticed Thor was now looking at her for guidance on how to continue. As urgently as she would liked to have explored what he had nearly conveyed, she opted to put her own curiosity aside for the moment and nodded at Thor to go on.

"And yet you know about all the things she has done in the past? Deeds which were . . . notgood?"

A knowing air crept over Barton's visage, and he cracked a smile that was anything but friendly. "I see where you are going with this, Thor, and I appreciate it, but . . . "

"But nothing. If you are appreciative then show it, and just listen." The words sounded so much like they were coming from a schoolteacher and not a millenium-old, firmly muscled warrior that Natasha had to bite back a snicker.

"There are several things you should know about my brother," Thor spoke in the same authoritarian tone. "First, he is dangerous." Clint started to interrupt again. "You already know this. However, the reasons why he is so dangerous are the same reasons why he was my closest ally for centuries: he is calculating, charming, and extraordinarily intelligent. That makes him resourceful and difficult to fool. Yet it also makes him manipulative, obstinate, and able to conceal his emotions from anyone. It's what makes him such a treacherous enemy. It is also a perfect description-forgive me, Natasha-of your closest friend, Agent Barton."

Barely-controlled rage crackled across Barton's forehead. Natasha was a little stunned and sore herself at the comparison between herself and Loki; however, the umbrage subsided quickly when she concluded that he was, in fact, correct.

"If she tried to kill you tomorrow, Agent Barton, would you despise her?"

The question lingered in the air like an accusation, but Clint did not immediately respond, though his eyes still sparked with fury. "No more than I could despise myself," he said through clenched teeth.

"If she deceived you and tried to destroy all that you held dear, would you hate her?"

"She would never do that," Barton seethed.

"Why do you believe that?" Thor asked coolly. "Because she has confided in you? Shared your deepest fears? Knows your most closely guarded secrets?" The Asgardian's look held a percipient undertone which Natasha knew would play right into his hands in just a few more exchanges. For the briefest of moments, he reflected his brother perfectly, although they admittedly shared no blood. "Because she saved your life?" he questioned teasingly. "Because you saved hers?"

Clint nodded, but his conviction was obviously waning.

"Because she loves you?" There it was-the crux: the point driven home like a blow to the chest. _You cannot know that, never for certain. You can only trust that when someone says it, that they truly mean it. But it is all just so many words. Love can only exist where there is trust, and trust is a weakness. One that lays us bare and open to betrayal. _

_If you love her then she can destroy you._

A few more agonizing heartbeats elapsed before Clint could respond. He did look like he had taken a potent physical blow, and his hands sought his chest, his mouth slack. When he answered, his voice was raw. "You really do care about him, don't you?"

Thor gave a positive inclination of his head.

"I know that should mean something to me-that you care for him and have known him for so many years, but I can't forgive him, Thor." The agent's eyes were starting to well up, but he was clearly trying to dampen the sentiment. "He defiled me-took out my insides and threw them away like so much garbage. He infected me with his own horrors, and I can't _see anything else_!" This confession chilled Natasha to the bone. She had never heard Clint speak like this, almost eloquent in his torment, and so vulnerable to judgment. A few tears did finally cascade down the swell of his cheeks, but he kept his overall composure.

Thor's features had softened into exhaustive compassion. "It is not a matter of forgiveness, my friend," he said gently. "Nor is it about justice. It is only a matter of finding out why this happened, and then determining if there is any way that he can be reclaimed."  
"And if he can't?" Barton wiped away the wetness from his cheek without pretense.

"Then he must be destroyed." The statement was quiet but blunt.

"Would you be able to do that?" Clint almost glanced back at Natasha as he said this, indicating that he was wondering if he would be able to do the same to her, if necessary. He checked himself quickly.

"I am not certain," Thor sighed, his hands resting on his knees. They looked large enough to crack a human skull, and yet the grip was delicate. "I have had my opportunities, and I have squandered them all. Yet, I do think that if he is beyond hope, I may be able to stand aside long enough for someone else to do the deed." The blonde then placed a hand on Clint's shoulder and smiled genuinely. "Do you happen to know any volunteers?"

These words actually brought out a laugh in the generally stoic agent.

"In all sincerity . . ." the Thunder god continued, "I do not think that we are too far apart, ideologically. We both need to know the reasons behind Loki's madness, and I vow to reveal to you whatever I may unearth."

Clint indicated his silent acceptance of these terms. "I _have_ to know," he stated, his voice becoming measured again. "I only hope that . . . " His words trailed off, and he dismissed the thought with a shake of the head.

"Go ahead, my friend. I will not judge you for your candor."

Barton cleared his throat and sat silently for a moment. "I only hope," he muttered, "that we both don't regret what we find out."

"For myself there can be no other ending," Thor said sorrowfully.


	9. Part II: Anger Chapter 4

-4-

"I understand how he feels," Steve remarked. "One of my oldest friends became the Winter Soldier." He and Natasha had exchanged protocols regarding the whereabouts of former-Director Fury and were now conversing casually in the library just off Rogers' sleeping quarters. The subject was Thor's departure to find his bellicose younger brother and the wisdom of such a risky errand. "The 'how' of him becoming a killer might be different, but the feelings involved are probably similar."

"I can't imagine what it must be like to be betrayed by someone that close to you." Natasha was holding a picture of Steve and Bucky when they were in basic training together, each in a neatly pressed uniform with primly slicked-back hair. She traced her fingers delicately over their smiling faces, their arms slung haplessly about one another in a carefree embrace. "Mainly because I never allow anyone to _get_ that close to me." Even to her, the words sounded a little wistful.

"I think . . . " Steve smiled, gently plucking the object from her grasp, "that is likely an honor reserved for only one." He placed it reverently back on the mantle next to to his chair.

She gave only a furtive tilt of her head, careful not to confirm or deny anything so personal. "So, where do you fall on Thor going after Loki? Noble or insane?" Sure, it was changing the subject, but it was the question on everyone's lips today.

"If Loki has the Tesseract, I think it's honorable." Captain Rogers had a fist resting thoughtfully on his chin in a pose Natasha was sure the paparazzi would kill for. "Someone like Loki doesn't go to the trouble of stealing something that powerful without a specific purpose in mind. If Thor thinks he can prevent him from using it then I support that."

"Have you ever heard him talk about him, though? Thor about Loki, I mean?"

"Oh, yes," Steve chuckled. "At times he speaks about him at length. You can tell he almost idolized him at one time."

Natasha raised a questioning eyebrow at that statement. "Really?"

"Really. I mean, we know that Loki has always been envious of his brother, but I think it was sometimes the other way around, as well." His mouth turned upwards in an involuntary smile, and his look became nostalgic. "Some of the things those two got up to were not so far removed from the things Bucky and I used to do - just on a more epic scale, I suppose."

"I don't think Loki and Barnes are as similar as you might think," Natasha commented. She took the opportunity to fill up her glass with scotch again from the decanter Steve left out for guests; unsurprisingly, Captain America did not partake of liquor for his own part. "Your friend was captured and brainwashed, but Loki just lost his mind."

"That may be why I pity Thor more than myself in this situation. With Buck there was someone to finger, and he was just a victim of someone else's evil intentions. With Loki, it was a psychotic break, almost. I've seen men come back from the horrors of war completely changed, so much so that their loved ones barely recognize them anymore. It seems the same here." He shook his head sadly, obviously focusing his compassion on the older sibling. "It's like watching someone you love die."

"Maybe worse," Natasha stated. She threw back a quick swallow of the burning liquid without even cringing. "In Thor's case he has to watch a monster with his brother's face hurt innocent people . . . sometimes people he loves. Plus, he now has an enemy that knows all of his weaknesses."

Steve smiled again, the gesture broad and warm. The ease of this reflex was similar to that of Thor's, and she wondered secretly how anyone could be that affable without pretense. When Steve grinned, it seemed so legitimate, as if the smile was his natural state and all other expressions were merely affectation. "Instead of 'the devil you know,'" he said, "it's more the 'devil who knows you.'"

"Exactly." She was on her third scotch, by her count - which was likely still reliable at this point - and the pleasant feeling of flushed detachment was starting to kick in. "Of course, knowing his brother only from violent confrontation, I can't really imagine him as anything other than a vicious madman."

"Agreed," Rogers responded amiably. "Until Thor and I started exchanging stories a few weeks ago, I would have likely said the same thing."

It did not go unnoticed by Natasha that he had pushed the decanter of alcohol back on the table to a point where it would be more difficult to reach. She did an internal eye-roll. 'Come on, boy scout,' she thought, 'don't try to impress your morals upon me. I've had nowhere near enough, let alone too much.'

"I mean, for example, he told me this story last week about this time he and Loki were sent to kill a beast who had been terrorizing a village in Nornheim - I think it was Nornheim - anyway, it was a '-heim' of some sort, near Asgard." Steve leaned forward, placing his palms on his thighs. "Apparently this was a migrant species, one that did not typically spend much time in that 'realm,' I suppose he would call it."

"Mm-hmm," Natasha confirmed. Her hand darted out to grab the bottle of scotch faster than she ought to be able to at this point. Was it possible for liquor to improve your reflexes? It hardly mattered; she was able to dispense the drink and return the container before Rogers could even begin to protest.

Steve gave her a sheepish shrug before he continued. "Well, it seems that the Asgardians were somewhat unfamiliar with the finer details of this particular species - he described it as kind of a big lizard with three horns and two pairs of wings, probably dragon-like, I'm guessing. It was rampaging through the village, damaging houses and eating cattle and pack-animals alike when Thor and Loki finally approached it. It was two-and-a-half times their height, with enormous claws and several rows of pointed teeth. So they engage it - they've fought beside one another for centuries so they get the better of it fairly quickly since they each know what the other will do, and when they're just about to relieve it of its head, the _mother_ shows up. It turns out that this was just a fledgling - the mother is almost twice as big and definitely twice as angry." He was chuckling to himself, and Natasha could tell he was building to an amusing climax.

"So this is too much for just the two of them to handle - this was in the days before Mjolnir, Thor said - and they decide to retreat. Actually, I think Loki had to sweet-talk Thor into giving up a fight that was obviously futile, but that is beside the point. They get back to their horses, and they're riding away just as fast as they can, when Thor gets a wrist tangled pretty tightly in one of his reins, and try as he might, he cannot shake it free. So he asks Loki to help him, even though they're still riding at top speed over hills and into valleys. Loki takes out a knife and grabs Thor's horse by the bridle to pull it closer. Just as he cuts his brother loose, he realizes they are heading into a gorge full of briar bushes - huge ones, with spikes as big as fingers. Thor is loose and is able to steer his mount off to the side, but Loki's horse stumbles and throws him headfirst into the thorn bushes. The beast following him stops right before she gets to the briars and just waits for Loki to come out. Eventually, he drags himself out from the bushes, and he's covered head to toe in cuts and blood - he looks a real mess. Plus, he looks angry - like really, really not in the mood to have to battle a creature of any size, let alone a monster. The beast starts to roar at him, but he just turns to it and yells back at her instead, right in her face, something to the effect of 'Oh, shut up, you insufferable creature!'"

Steve made a heroic attempt to duplicate the accent, but the results were comically dubious; plus, this anecdote was reminiscent of the confrontation between Loki and the Hulk, and so they both had to pause a moment to laugh unashamedly. "This turned out rather differently, though, because this 30-foot creature with claws and teeth and a bad disposition decides she wants nothing to do with someone who can make such a nasty face, and she just _gives up and walks away._ Loki literally defeated a huge, raging monster with his bad attitude."

Natasha had to admit that the scene she was imagining to accompany this little vignette was quite humorous: the catty immortal standing disheveled and blood-soaked before an enormous creature who is intimidated by just his bitch-face. Or maybe it was the drinking that enhanced the tale, although Steve was stone sober and was enjoying it just as much the second time, she noted.

"On the way home," Rogers heaved through minor bouts of laughter, "Thor said Loki chewed him out in all thirty-six languages that he knew, and in others he wasn't so fluent in."

"It's just a shame there's no video," she grinned, taking another prolonged taste of the golden liquid. Then she stiffened and sat quietly for several seconds. Steve noticed the change in her demeanor almost instantly. "Wait - how many languages does Loki speak?" she asked, impassive.

"Thirty-six, Thor said."

"Are these_ alien _languages, by chance?"

Steve nodded. "Most likely. Thor said he was quite a scholar, and he learned the languages of all the major interstellar civilizations fluently in order to aid in diplomacy. It was a role that Odin apparently encouraged Loki to pursue for some time. There were at least two dozen others that he knew conversationally, or so Thor claimed. It was one of the skills for which he actually envied him." When she did not immediately react, he asked, "Natasha . . . are you alright?"

She stared straight ahead but still managed to refill her beverage without changing her gaze. "'An alien with an advanced linguistics degree,'" she muttered, paraphrasing Coulson's earlier words. "I'll be damned. . . "

_The Starship, Sanctuary II. Current Location: the Negative Zone_

"Show me Prison Alpha," Nebula demanded of the ship's computer, and the screen dissolved into an image of the interior of the facility. It was sleeping hours, and there was nothing but empty corridors and shadowed holding cells to be seen. It was also eerily silent throughout the interior of the starship with all the Sakaaran troops filed away neatly in their matching bunks for their six-hour rest. She lived for these small hours of sentient reprieve, when all that existed were herself, the gentle whirring of the ship's moving parts, and her stygian thoughts to accompany her. When the known universe was comprised solely of the dense mass of antipathy in her gut, marked by the superlative sting of the nails which bore into her flesh, driven in by her own hateful grasp . . .

Then there was that sound again - the soft intake of a breath followed by a muffled exhale - an obvious attempt to hide a living presence. She cocked an ear towards the vast expanse of the room at her back, listening fervently for another sound which would confirm her suspicions. Moments passed before the gentle gasp of breathing was repeated, again in a manner so hesitant that it was barely discernible. "Show me Tarsuu," she stated, absently. The screen's picture then morphed into an image of the planet's surface, but she was not the least bit focused on the visual she had requested. Instead, she monitored the surroundings for motions or the faint brushing of fabric against skin which would indicate unseen movement.

Then there it was: the merest whisper of friction between cloth and the settling of a limb coming from the closest corner of the darkened room. She continued studying the shifting viewpoints on the monitor before her in order to mask that she had detected an unwelcome presence. At the same time, she reached back quietly to grasp the weapon at her back - a handle which contained a telescoping metal scepter that was blunt on one side to serve as a bludgeon and honed on the opposing side to a deadly-sharp edge. Once her hand was tightly nestled against the grip, she simultaneously unsheathed it while crossing swiftly to the source of the muted breathing. She expertly levelled the blade swiftly against the throat of the veiled figure which knelt before her.

"Reveal yourself, creature," she spat, her tone merciless, "so that I might see your eyes as I end your wretched life."

The being lifted its head weakly, and the cowl of its hood fell away and revealed the identity beneath: a slender, dark-skinned Sakaaran, its face twisted in innocent fear. "That's impossible," she murmured. "The Shadows sleep during these hours . . . unwakeable . . . " Just as her mind fell upon the likely explanation, she felt a hand on her waist and a pinch at her throat. The person before her dissolved in a viridian layer of haze, thinning and then evaporating like mist. The hand on her midsection pressed firmly and just short of ungently before she felt the breath of her assailant against her ear, the air warm and insistent.

"I had hoped you would be pleased to see me," a masculine voice sighed at her back. She recognized it instantly, and the knowledge sated and incited her concurrently. The blade against her neck dug more deeply into the flesh beneath it, and she moaned with a mixture of rage and anticipation.

"Oh, but I am," she stated between clenched teeth. With that, Nebula drove an elbow into the man's ribs hard enough to expel most of the air from his lungs. She then swept his legs out from under him with the blunt side of the weapon she still carried, and as he landed roughly on his back, she kicked the dagger from his grip with the tip of her boot. She jammed the dull side of the blade up under his chin and pressed until there were distinct sounds of strangulation. "However, I am _more _pleased to see you like this," she smiled. She let up on the pressure just enough that her opponent's color returned to normal - a pallid, nearly opalescent white complexion, unblemished and lean. It's unbroken surface nearly begged to be bitten, she thought as she took in his panting gasps for breath, and she was suddenly very aware that she was straddling her adversary, her long legs splayed and kneeling on either side of his slender torso. She tangled her fingers unkindly in his smooth, dark locks and wrenched his head harshly backwards to expose his neck more fully, a cruel reminder of his vulnerable position. "I have missed you terribly," she laughed, her rimless eyes black and glossy like liquid.

She released him suddenly and unfolded her legs from alongside him, standing with a fearless grace. She retracted the scepter and replaced it in the holster on her back, stepping away to allow him room to collect himself. Though his look should have been fearful and defeated, he instead seemed placid, his demeanor serene. The poise with which he drew himself to his feet and smoothed the folds of his garments mirrored her own nimble bearing, and his face betrayed no fear despite his recent precarious position at her mercy. When he raised those eyes to her - the ones so swimming with pain and yet flickering with an indomitable resolve - she found herself struggling with an inexplicable need to do whatever would ease his torment. Yet, this was a perilous precipice she was treading; it was not in her nature to bend to the will of any being - male or female, terrible or beautiful. It was her way to make others fear, respect, and crave her. Never the other way around.

He had been the sole exception in all this time.

"I remember the first time I saw you," she said unashamedly. "Broken . . . lost . . . half-dead. I was not certain whether I should save you or end your misery."

"To my chagrin, you chose the former," he said mirthlessly. "I often wonder why you did."

"You truly do not know?" she asked coyly, arms folded and hips cocked in a vexatiously brash manner. She approached him boldly, and she openly searched his eyes for any hint of duplicity. He studied her back with an equally unflinching gaze which betrayed nothing of his inner thoughts, his intentions expertly masked. "I saw an ally in you - someone just as damaged as I was," she explained. "Saving you was my way of preserving myself."

"Should I thank you?" he asked coldly. "Do you perceive saving my life as a favor?"

The sudden twist in his tone was like a blow to her; the pleasing low hum of his voice became a wicked, accusatory inflection, heady with the venomous insinuation that she had wronged him. She had never seen her decision to help him as an error, but he was implying that perhaps he would have been better served by being allowed to die. _It was never like that,_ she thought sorely. It was not pity that had driven her actions, nor was it an act of premeditation, intended to benefit her at a later time. What it truly was, she had not even allowed herself to openly consider. Seeing him again, healed and determined, his firm, sinewy limbs strong against the force of her retaliation, had caused her to confront the doubt he had stirred within her when she had first beheld him in the infirmary on Algorant. Even emaciated and bleeding, he had still been enticing to her.

"Would you have me amend my error?" she taunted him, her hand hovering fiendishly over her weapon again. She strode purposefully over to where he stood and gripped his collar, pulling the ends of the fabric until it was taut. "I could kill you now," she offered playfully.

"Could you?" he whispered, his eyes dancing with a teasing fire.

"If it would please you," she lied.

"I'm sure you know by now that I am not so easily pleased."

"And to think I showed you the Tesseract," Nebula murmured with malignant intent. "Which, by the way, I understand you now have in your possession."

"I am simply holding it for a time," he chuckled. "It was gifted to an unworthy group of miscreants. I merely relieved them of the burden of custody."

"How generous of you," she cajoled. "I do not suppose you have brought it along with you? I long to see you bend it to your will; such a powerful object could fulfill both of our dark ambitions, with plenty of energy remaining for whatever our imaginations can conjure."

"Oola," he scolded, his tongue clicking in disappointment. One of his long, slender arms encircled her waist, and she stiffened for a moment before yielding to his volition. "Such substantial gifts should not be squandered on petty personal grievances. These opportunities are wasted unless they are bent to fulfill much larger agendas . . . rife with proper vengeance." As much as she wanted to balk at his use of the diminutive form of her name - the one reserved for the few who had held her affections - she had to harken to his promise of requital, loosening the constraint at his throat in inquisitive submission.

"_Proper_ vengeance?" she echoed with naked interest.

"Against He who has wronged us both."

Nebula's face became a plasticine mask, fluid and unreadable. "He has given me life," she parroted. "He has shown me worlds beyond the known universe, and He has returned me from the brink of death - stronger and better than I had been before."

"My Oola," the man purred, his thumb tracing the line of her chin affectionately. "He has taken you apart, piece by piece, until there was nothing left for you to give him but your soul. A price you thought to be too high in the end." He tilted his forehead to press against hers, their breath mingling in the potent stillness. "Do you not remember . . . ?"

_There were no pictures associated with this memory, only the more visceral senses: she could feel the pain - hot, white, and blinding - coursing through the nerves that remained after the limb had been severed. 'Flesh is weak,' the sonorous voice of her Father repeated from the record in her memory. 'Metals are more lasting, more enduring . . . ' Then the scent of scorched flesh, __**her **__flesh, met her nostrils as the new appendage was molded into its place, the pressure against her exposed neurons agonizing and primordial. She listened intently to the raw screams that resulted, using the cacophony to ground her and to still the horrible lurching of the room. It was only when she tasted the blood from her shredded vocal cords that she realized the cries had been her own . Not until she moved the joints of her dominant arm for the first time had she became aware of the deadened sensation, her inability to feel the gentle brush of the wind or the softness of skin against her own. It was like moving through thickened air, no fine bristles of contact or delicate response. She was numbed to all outside tactility - less than alive. And several other parts of her would suffer this fate in years to come, all at His behest . . . _

_The impression dissipated again into something more tangible. She was in the prison hospital on Algorant, treading indifferently between the cots laden with the injured and ailing, determining with impunity the fates of the forsaken beings at her feet. She felt nothing for these deplorable creatures - less than nothing, as she wandered among them, burdened with finding any who might be worth preserving, but all she could perceive were dismal, ignoble prospects. Then she had brushed a man's seemingly lifeless foot in error, and he twisted slowly towards her, his breath expelling in a muted sigh, the knotted crown of his sable hair tumbling aside to expose his brutalized features. The extent of the beating he had endured was far beyond what was typically suffered by even those in the Pit; the blood from his nose and ears had bathed his neck and shoulders until their true shade could not be surmised, and one arm and both legs were badly misshapen from the number of broken bones they contained. 'What happened to this one?' she asked. _

'_He tried to escape,' the Badoon indifferently. 'He killed four guards and injured three others. '_

_She looked at the shattered being before her, the one they had named 'Kaal' for his ability to dole out death both grandly and surreptitiously. He had been used as an object of amusement until he had dared to reclaim his freedom, and then he had been ground into the dirt beneath the boot heels of his captors. _

'_Terminate them all . . . ' she had commanded, dispassionate. She had pointed to the pitiable man before her almost as an afterthought. '. . . except him,' she finished. No, this one she would spare, if only to claim something so resilient as her own . . . _

_Another vision appeared, and this scene found her kneeling before His throne, her fists balled in exasperation, and her pleas ignored._

'_Then he will try again!" the Titan's voice reverberated against the walls angrily. 'He will learn to control the Tesseract, and he will not rest until he can conduct its power.'_

'_ButFather, it is destroying him!' She dared not look Thanos in the eye while openly defying him. 'He will be useless to us if he does not survive it!' She also hoped that not meeting his gaze would conceal the true reason she wished to preserve his life - - that despite how she had struggled to avoid it, she had grown close to him. Such weakness would condemn them both._

'_If he cannot be trained to wield it then he __**is**__ useless! He will learn to wield it or he will be consumed by it!'_

'_If he fails, it will drive him to madness! His mind will be ripped apart!' she insisted, and the crude edge of her fury was nearly uncontainable._

'_If that worries you so deeply, then perhaps you should ensure that he does not fail.' The Titan's slow smile was tinged with mockery. So he had already guessed the depths of her affections for the sorcerer, and he was using this knowledge to manipulate her into doing his will. She could taste the blood as her teeth sank into her tongue, desperately trying to contain her wrath. _

_The scene dissipated again into a thick, empty blackness - desolate and silent. Then she could hear her own voice again , now deathly sincere, her barren eyes searching the callous visage of Ronan the Accuser. 'You kill him, and I will help you destroy a thousand planets,' she had vowed, if only he would help her to eliminate her tormentor, that brutal fiend whom she had called Father . . ._

The sudden halt to the impressions which had been changing so rapidly before her left her head and stomach swimming momentarily, and she clung to his elbow absently to steady herself. It was his sorcery which had fed her these fleeting tastes of her past, driving home the misery that she had endured in the service of Thanos. It was also unlikely that his inclusion of the moments when she had showed compassion for him had been coincidental, for he was nothing if not an expert manipulator. The fact that she knew this did nothing to prevent her from being vulnerable to his deceptions.

"And how many worlds would you destroy for me?" he teased, tightening his grasp on her hip, and the hum of his silvery voice trailed across her cheek like a wisp of honeyed smoke.

She breathed his name - his _true_ name - like a disparaging sob into the shell of his ear.

"For you, " she admitted to her own disgrace, "Ten thousand."

His smile was satisfied but tenuous, and he released her without reply. She saw that he was turning to leave, and knowing that the thought of this was cutting her to the bone made her harden her feelings in retaliatory spite. "However . . . " she hissed, and the acrid tone made him pause. "If you betray me, I will destroy only one." He pivoted back slightly, not fully turning to face her again, but just enough that his profile was visible in the backlight of the screen which still glowed at the ship's helm.

"Yours," she promised him, with every ounce of sincerity she had given to Ronan.


	10. Part III: Bargaining Ch 1

~~ Part III: ~~

Bargaining

It is a trick among the dishonest to offer sacrifices that are not needed, or not possible, to avoid making those that are required. - Ivan Goncharov

-1-

'Welcome to Broxton,' the sign before him read, 'An Unincorporated Community of Caddo County.' Overall, Thor surmised, Oklahoma was not so different from New Mexico: both had a distinct golden hue, although one was born of deserts and the other of restless fields of grain, and each was serenely beautiful in its own way. The inhabitants were mostly sincere and welcoming, as well, and Thor did not wish to startle them by landing in full Asgardian regalia and a brandishing a warhammer in the center of a town. Therefore, he had alighted on the outskirts (Mjölnir tucked safely into a satchel at his back) dressed in an unassuming pair of blue jeans and a red-and-blue plaid flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows. The ensemble was completed by a new but worn-looking leather belt with a buckle that declared Oklahoma the 'Best Place Ever,' which he had picked up at a truck stop along the interstate. He felt reasonably camouflaged as he strode into town, his long tresses tucked up beneath a cap with 'OU' printed in large letters across the front of it (also a truck stop find). He did not know the significance of the letters, but their bold message somehow appealed to him.

The Asgardian was actually destined for the neighboring town of Fort Cobb, a small community with just a few restaurants and a handful other businesses, and which had once been a military installation. He had walked most of the distance before a friendly young man in a sleeveless t-shirt - who talked endlessly and smoked as if it were a religious experience - offered him a ride into town. He had accepted, finding the genial conversation more to his liking than he would have guessed, and if the man was taken aback by Thor's unusual manner of speaking, he did not show it. When they parted ways, Thor found himself overcome with a feeling which was not unlike loneliness, abandoned in a small, rural town in the middle of so much open land with no practical way to contact his friends back in New York. Unless, of course, he wanted to try the 'cell phone' again, which had not exactly been to his liking; the interface was a bit too small for someone with hands of his size.

What Loki was doing in a place like this, Heimdall could not explain, only that he had arrived here earlier that day with what seemed to be a specific purpose. His brother was typically adept at shielding himself from the watchman's gaze, but the effort took more power than Loki liked to expend at times. Therefore, he showed up in the Gatekeeper's sightline for brief instances, tiny blips on his radar that the guardian could not piece together into anything useful. It was frustrating, mostly, but it just so happened that today was when both Loki had revealed himself and his brother had arrived briefly in Asgard to inquire into his whereabouts. So Thor was now meandering between storefronts, peeking out from beneath the visor of his hat to try and catch a glimpse of his erstwhile sibling and feeling like he might be questioned any moment for his cagey behavior.

Then there he was, unmistakably: the tall, lithe frame of his brother, pausing before the door of what appeared to be a drinking establishment. His ebony locks looked short, the way he had worn them in the past, the tips barely skimming the collar of his shirt. He was not clothed as formally as when he had visited Midgard before in secret, but he was still overdressed for the occasion in a button-down cream polo and dark slacks but no tie. Thor could not help but think that this entire situation was completely illogical - Loki was wanted by not one but two entire realms for dire crimes, and yet here he was casually slipping into a tavern in perhaps the humblest town in all of Midgard. Plus, if he still possessed the Tesseract, he could be absolutely anywhere in the known universe so why would he be _here?_ He gave his brother several minutes to acclimate himself before he followed him, his fists clenching in barely-restrained exasperation.

The god took a seat inconspicuously in a darkened corner of the bar where he could just make out Loki's features as he spoke softly, head lowered, to the man in the seat across from him. The other man was dressed predominantly in black, and his back was to Thor so his face was unseeable. The conversation did not seem to be going pleasantly, as the fugitive Asgardian spent the majority of the clandestine exchange with his brow furrowed and his lips tightly pressed against one another, pausing only infrequently to hold back an incredulous laugh. With his hair clipped and his garments so crisp, he looked younger - less harrowed and unburdened from his fractured mind. Yet he knew this was clearly an illusion, at least in part; Loki could hardly stride along the streets of Midgard with his unkempt hair and the wild, ravaged glint in his demented eyes. He must still have had enough of his wits about him to take such things into consideration, it seemed. As Thor thought about what this awareness might indicate, the room grew silent and all eyes turned to a disturbance at the other end of the room.

All eyes, that was, except for Loki's.

*.***.*

"Where are you, exactly?" Natasha inquired, irritated. Tony was currently suited up and presumably cruising over some unsuspecting city on an errand - **her **errand, in fact. The billionaire had been surprisingly insistent that she remain with Clint in his emotionally labile state, and he curiously volunteered to go careening across middle America in order to find Nick Fury and consult with him. Although Romanov was fairly sure that his true motivation was a chance to confront Fury about some of the items he had been recovering from his analysis of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s master files, she had to concede that it would be more time-efficient for him to fly there and relay her inquiries to the former Director, and Stark would send the answers back to her from his helmet-cam.

"I am . . . " he paused as if looking around, as if he did not know _exactly_ where he was down to a tenth of a mile from his display, ". . . in the exact middle of nowhere. Hold on - I'm touching down." The whine of the thrusters powering down could be heard, followed by a tense silence.

"Tony - where is Fury? You said he wasn't at the address that Steve gave me." Natasha was growing impatient of Stark's cat-and-mouse routine. "Just tell me where you are."

"Not yet, Ms. Romanov. Let me get my bearings, and then I'll return you to regularly scheduled programming. Stark out."

If Tony was pretending that he had ceased communications, he was hopelessly betrayed by the ambient noises around him since the distinct sound of traffic and Stark's weighted footsteps could still be heard as he moved towards his unknown destination.

"Stark!" the red-haired agent seethed, "Tell me where you are or so help me -"

"I'm less than thirty miles from the address you gave me. Fury was not home, but his well-meaning and, thankfully, clueless landlady told me that he has been here just about every night of the week to watch the World Poker Championships. Not exactly high espionage, Natasha, so you can calm your babushka." Tony spat the words out so abruptly that it was clear he was growing annoyed in return. The sound of a door being pushed open and the jingle of a bell which signaled the entrance of customers could be detected in the background. The muffled sound of honky-tonk music was briefly heard along with the atmospheric chattering of many voices . . . and then silence.

Tony grinned smugly at the uproar his entrance had caused - the room had been rendered both mute and dormant as soon as he had crossed the threshold. Still, it was not likely every day that a superhero in a mechanized suit comes sashaying into a dive bar in a small town in such an isolated part of America, he thought, so he may as well play to the crowd. He retracted the visor of the suit and moved calmly (but loudly) to the counter of the bar, and all gazes followed him in astonishment.

"Can I get a, uh, scotch and soda with a beer back - domestic is fine." He looked up and down the bar at each row of bewildered faces, falling finally upon the young, buff hayseed at the end of the line of stools he was occupying space in. "And one for my friend over there in the hat, please - whatever he's drinking." He gave the man a spuriously friendly nod of the head, but the man just gazed back at him with his jaw open, the shock he conveyed a full-fold higher than the others.

"Sooners fan, eh?" Stark continued, indicating the man's headgear with the brush of a finger across his own brow, but this effort to make conversation also failed miserably. When the awkward lull continued, Tony grew more eager to return the state of affairs back to its normal, undramatic atmosphere. The man in the Oklahoma U. hat continued to stare blankly at him as if he were not a superhero but, in fact, a fantastical illusion, and Stark tried not to glare back at him, he really did, but it was just so . . . _rude_ to continue to gape at someone like that. "Is there something I can help you with?" he said in a clipped manner, glaring back at him indignantly.

Then Tony took a closer look at the face, and he must have mirrored the man's look exactly.

"Thor?" he managed, his features still aghast. "But I thought you were going after . . . ?"

The astonished Asgardian pointed gingerly over Tony's left shoulder, and he turned to find the countenance of the younger sibling studying him with wry amusement from an adjacent booth.

"Oh." Stark shrugged indifferently. "So, I'm guessing you've lost the element of surprise, then?"

Thor's recovery from the jar of seeing Iron Man stride into the very bar in which he had found his brother was happening painfully slowly; he moved languidly, almost as if he were struggling through tar. His head nodded in a laborious motion, and then he pointed again over to where Loki was still sitting, poised as if he were sharing afternoon tea with the Duchess of York, his hands clasped neatly together and his elbows propped up on the surface of the table with perfection. The raven-haired being was studying Tony's face carefully, obviously waiting for some reaction from his human quarry, but what could he possibly be wanting to see him do? Suddenly, the realization was obvious, and for the first time in his life, Tony Stark did an unmistakable double-take.

Loki was casually sharing a booth with Nick Fury.

Several phrases came spilling out of the billionaire's lips all at once: "What the - - ? Why are you -? Why is he -?" Then he spun towards Thor again, "Why are _you -_?_" _

"Good evening, Mr. Stark," Loki drawled from behind his knuckles. "Brother," he added, less cordially. He nodded his head coolly to acknowledge that Thor's presence had been recognized, and from his nonchalant manner, that he had known his brother had been present for some time. Fury, on the other hand, was seated restlessly, his hand cupped to the top of his head as though he wished it could make him invisible.

Tony stomped over to their table, the feet of his suit resounding painfully in the still-silent surroundings. "You!" he barked accusingly at Loki. He subsequently seemed to lose his train of thought and pursed his lips in agonizing indecision. "You stay right where you are," he told the Asgardian. "You, on the other hand -" he then wheeled toward Fury with eyes wild and yet violently lost. "I don't even **know** what to say to **you**!" Stark allowed that sentiment to settle in the air for a moment, arms crossed heatedly, waves of differing emotion racing across his brow.

"Look, Stark, this is far less sinister than it seems," Fury assured him in a forceful whisper. "Now, please keep your voice down! This is not the place to set off an international incident!"

"Then maybe you should have picked a more appropriate place for your little planet-betraying hook-up with Larry Poppins over there!" Tony used the thick metal glove of his suit to indicate the amused Asgardian. Although the spectators remained quietly observant, several of their number had produced cellphones and were snapping away gleefully with the cameras they contained.

"Can we talk about this _outside_?" Nick grumbled through clenched teeth.

As the two humans continued their impassioned debate, Thor stood awkwardly, his legs threatening to buckle beneath him like those of a newborn fawn. He had been so certain that seeing Loki again would cause him to flood with rage - that he would have to wrestle with his instincts so as not to throttle him on the spot. Now, faced squarely with his moment of dread, he found that he still longed for some measure of retribution, but his need was not to end his treacherous brother's life but rather to shake him repeatedly until it forced all the wickedness from his slighter frame. Instead, he simply crossed over to his placid sibling with hesitant steps, ignoring all other activity in the vicinity as he made his approach.

The Thunder God tightened his jaw and furrowed his brow in an effort to convey his displeasure. "Loki, we need to talk," Thor growled roughly.

"I have grown weary of speaking, for my own part," Loki replied offhandedly. "Could we not simply settle this over ale and some genial sparring?" There was a caramel-colored glass of liquor sitting before his brother which remained untouched, while Thor noticed that Fury had made his way through most of his draft beer. Why would one order a drink and not partake of it? The likely reason was suddenly apparent to him.

"I would gladly spar with you, brother, if you would tell me where you truly are. If I sought to strike you now, I fear that my blows would simply pass through you."

Loki's mouth parted in a percipient grin. "And they said you could not be trained," he mocked the larger god. "I am not so far from here, truthfully, but not close enough that Fury's former colleagues could easily apprehend me if they chose to make an appearance. Although they would find that I do not intend to go gently regardless."

"Indeed," Thor said, his words tinged with reproach. "That only happens when you wish to be caught."

"It seems you have unearthed all of my tricks, dear brother." Thor's skin began to spark with a prickly sensation, born of the knowledge that this was all very wrong: '_dear_ brother?' Loki had not called him this since he found out about his true ancestry, and if the word 'brother' had been spoken on its own he never failed to taunt him with it in a biting, venomous tone. Now Loki sounded cool and focused, absolutely in control of all of his faculties. Even in Manhattan, his brother had not seemed so absolutely cocksure.

This was a precarious situation, indeed.

The arguing at Thor's back had subsided into conversation-level bickering, and so the pair of supernatural siblings turned their attention back to the mortals. Tony's voice was softer now with less homicidal intent, and most of the crowd had finished taking selfies with the heated confrontation in the background and gone back to their drinking and dancing. Fury was sitting calmly with his hands flat on the tabletop, and he nodded to a young woman in a pencil skirt and patterned blouse who was alone in a booth in the neighboring row. She spoke a few inaudible words with a finger pressed to her left ear. So S.H.I.E.L.D. was still watching over their former director even if he was technically 'off the grid,' Thor acceded with a gentle hum.

Loki, however, did not turn to acknowledge Fury's gesture, nor did the muscles of his face twitch even lightly in response. While few other beings would have considered this reaction irregular - particularly from a projected image of a person - Thor found that he was unsettled by the lack of recognition on his part. Even these projections were capable of sight and hearing, the results of which were related back in real time to wherever the magician was concealing himself. The only rational explanation was that Loki - the real Loki - had already been aware that the agent was present, in the same way that he must have known that Stark had entered the establishment due to his lack of concern. This, therefore, could only mean one thing: his treacherous brother was closer than he had implied and was seeing everything that happened in the bar with his own eyes.

The next few minutes were filled with blurred activity: a dozen armed agents clad in charcoal gray SWAT garb came rushing into the seating area, pointing a variety of rifles and handguns at the side of the booth which they believed to contain their enemy. The image of the being that was being confronted raised his hands in surrender, but its face wore a teasing smirk. Several other agents surrounded the area which contained the primary assault team and eased the patrons of the bar towards the exits, calming them as they did so. Since Thor appeared to be just another onlooker in his civilian wardrobe, he was urged with the others out onto the street. A clean-cut man with a dimpled chin was leading him by the elbow and assuring him that the situation was completely under control. From what Thor had ascertained about the situation, however, this was not true in the least.

The bulky Asgardian allowed himself to be herded with the other members of the crowd onto the surrounding streets, a specific purpose behind his blind compliance. Once he was out in the open, he carefully scrutinized the area, including his fellow evacuees, with a critical eye. One member of the throng immediately caught his eye: a tall, unassuming young man dressed casually in a white tee and long cargo shorts, a head of curly chestnut curls clipped short. It was not his physical appearance that drew Thor's attention but rather the casual demeanor with which he surveyed the scene, his lean frame posed collectedly, his hands resting in his front pockets. If this was the veiled guise of his villainous younger brother then Thor would need to move quickly in order to ensnare him; Loki was likely overexerting his powers by maintaining two false images and trying to process the mayhem that was unfolding inside the tavern, and so he was likely vulnerable . . . but only for a few precious seconds. The blonde man sauntered over to a point which was nearly directly behind the suspicious figure. As the agents began to pour from the front entrance, having presumably discovered that their intended target was only an image, the sanguine young man turned to make his escape - and collided with the broad chest of the God of Thunder.

Thor grasped at the boy's neck, swinging him into the neighboring alley and pinning him to the rough brick like a ragdoll. "Drop the illusion, brother - you are apprehended."

For a moment, the youth's wide, hazel eyes were so filled with innocent surprise that he doubted himself. However, the hands which gripped his wrists, insistently trying to part them in order to free himself, were stronger than the pull of any mortal man. Thor tightened his grasp on the man's throat, blatantly daring him to continue his pathetic ruse, and the mirage dissipated into a wisp of green-tinted light. Thor was subsequently met full on with the visage of his tormented sibling, the reality of which caused him to still his breath for a beat. His head was still wreathed in a mane of sooty, unkempt locks, but his once-alabaster skin was fading into a deathless gray, and dark haloes like bruises ringing his haggard eyes. He looked every inch as mad as Thor's fellow Avengers believed him to be, his lips twisted in an obscene, goading smirk which bared most of his perfect teeth.

"You continue to impress me, _brother_," he hissed through the insistent pressure on his windpipe, and the familial term finally held the disdain to which Thor had grown accustomed. "You have twice seen through my illusions." His sea-green eyes narrowed with contempt.

The larger man's grip faltered as he took in the decaying appearance of his brother, and he fought the urge to pull him into a tearful embrace; however, he was also keenly aware that this would most likely lead to another dagger to the midsection so he held firm.

"What are you doing here, Loki?" Thor demanded. "And why are you speaking with Nick Fury?"

"I think I have the answer to that," said a voice to their right. Tony Stark was approaching the pair from the direction of the bar, flanked by the S.W.A.T. agents from inside, guns now levelled at the pair of siblings in the alley. Fury was also among the throng, although he remained further back. "The former 'Herr Direktor' was a step ahead of our current one, and he had set up a meeting with our consulting supervillain regarding all of this foreboding outer-space business." Tony paused momentarily, his eyes rolled upwards, listening. "The feminine and belligerent voice in my ear is now asking how that is even possible, or, i.e. how would Fury be able to set up a rendezvous with Tall, Dark, and Menacing over there - - who, by the way, has _really _let himself go - when Thor didn't even know where he was. Well, Nick tells me that apparently he knows a guy, who knows a guy, who knows a _whole lot _of bad guys, and he had to phone in a favor which will haunt him to the grave." Stark seemed more than a little satisfied with this last piece of information.

Loki continued to smile the same seething grin throughout Tony's explanations. Along with his long, bedraggled hair and the wet, desperate gleam in his eye, the Asgardian looked positively feral.

"You wanna hand that thing over?" Stark asked Thor drily, making a beckoning motion with one glove.

So that was how they thought of Loki - just a 'thing'? Thor searched those wild, urgent eyes once more, and he realized that he was beginning to agree: there was no empathy remaining there, no warmth, no merciful reason, just madness - a thousand self-fabricated crimes against himself which needed to be put right through malicious deeds. Perhaps this was a hopeless mission after all.

The Thunderer nodded solemnly and released his hold on his brother's neck. As he did, the agents rushed in to seize their prisoner, encasing his wrists in the very magic-dampening shackles that he had urged the Midgardians to devise for their own protection. Thor had personally mediated the travel of the Asgardian craftsmen who had assisted in their forging, and now he was both relieved and deeply remorseful that he had done so. Was there no reprieve from the unmitigated guilt that his association with his sibling brought upon him? Yet even as they led Loki away, still leering like he had planned this outcome all along, Thor could not help but recognize that he would be bound to this world until this peril had run its course and he was certain that his brother was safe.

Lost to him in all possible ways, but, otherwise, safe.


	11. Part III: Bargaining Ch 2

-2-

Light deprivation only made the images from his past more vivid; additionally, it caused every brush of his skin against the sheets to seem amplified to a monstrous degree. There was no division of day from night, and so he dozed frequently, not knowing at times if he was truly awake or facing an elaborate nightmare. How deliciously ironic, he chuckled softly (the sound of it causing his eardrums to ache), that he should have the ability to bring everything around him to such desolate darkness, and yet he could not bear the presence of it for any length of time without going slightly mad. Currently, the Lilin thought he was very much awake, but the pictures before his eyes were so lifelike - so terrible that they had to be cruel memories.

_It had been the first of very few days of light on this hemisphere of Algorant, and the number of total hours of daylight would be very limited. Blackout had awakened just before the promise of dawn, the first he would have seen in nearly four months. His cellmates were sprawled carelessly along the floor around him; there were no beds or blankets of any kind, and there were six inmates packed into every bare area of floor. The surrounding cells were segregated only by walls of bars, and so there was no privacy afforded in the sea of enclosures. They were animals in pens, and their fates would be much the same: they would exist for the use and benefit of their unknown masters, and then they would die or be killed to serve another's purpose. A death by the ravages of time was beyond their expectations. _

_There was a dim glow of artificial illumination present within the holding areas, and so he could observe his surroundings only somewhat hazily. There were no windows in the cells in order to reduce the possibility of escape, and so any pre-dawn rays from the planet's nearest sun would be invisible to the prisoners; however, the Lilin had made a deal with Forty-Three which was going to allow him to bathe in the radiance of the elusive star for most of the day, such as it was. Although he would be required to perform hard labor for the latter part, he would be allowed on patrol with the Badoon for at least the first half-hour of the frugal minutes of sunlight. _

_Kaal stirred in the neighboring cage, gathering his wasted arms to his chest as if to seek a warmth which was unobtainable. The raven-haired man still bore the remnants of the wounds he had received in the Eye the previous day, although even the deepest lacerations were starting to knit together with roughly scabbed tissue. Most of the inmates were members of hearty species which healed more expeditiously than average, and Kaal was even more fortunate in this respect. His crown of blackened hair sat unruly upon his shoulders, and his eyes searched the dimness, dead and unfeeling. His usually unblemished skin was marked with several different stages of open sores - some seeping, and others crusted with mending tissue. He cracked each knuckle of his left hand sequentially, the sickening resonance spreading deftly throughout the silent space. _

_The grinding of the unkept hinges on his cell caused the Lilin to disregard Kaal for the moment. The misshapen head of Forty-Three appeared with little pretense, gesturing for the demon to follow him. He rose as softly as he could, although he had to pause an instant in order to extend his cramped muscles after another night spent on a hard stone surface. Just as he was stretching the muscles of his tormented neck, the sound of choking - raw and deliberate - came from the next cell. It was not Kaal, but rather an emaciated Arcturan with a belly rounded obscenely from either starvation or parasites. His hands were dripping with blood and sputum from the effort of trying to regain its breath, and his face was deepening from its native pale pink shade to a deeper, purplish color, unable to draw a proper breath. Forty-three produced a key from the heavy ring of them at his waist and began to rattle the rusted lock in an attempt to assist the struggling being. The demon's ebony-haired rival remained listless and mute, studying the veins in his gaunt forearms with far more interest than the creature who was dying almost at his feet. _

_When the door finally opened with a loud groan of protest, Forty-Three rushed to the side of the gasping Arcturan . . . only to find that the being was immediately able to breathe again. However, the Badoon found his own airway constricted by the firm, finely-honed edge of a dagger pressed expertly to the nape of his heaving throat. "Open the door, you wretched cur," Kaal commanded him, the curl of a sneer playing upon his lips. _

_Forty-Three must have immediately recognized the voice that goaded him because his hands instantly began to tremble as they clutched at the air around his neck, instinctively raising to free himself from the press of the blade that threatened him. "I will - I - I will - " he stammered gracelessly, stumbling backward with a jerk from his captor. "Just spare me, Gorharath . . . Let me live." _

'_Gorharath' was the Badoon word for 'devil' - their Lord of the Dead and tormentor of wayward souls. Blackout almost chuckled at how easily the guard allowed this epithet to spill from his panicked lips; it was demeaning how these figures of authority allowed the much slighter prisoner to intimidate them into weeping and begging at his feet, like supplicants rather than jailors. These entreaties did not serve the Badoon well, however, as he was lying slain beneath the footsteps of his captor, his throat sliced heinously, the head nearly severed the second the inmate's feet met the bare ground. _

_The Lilin was not certain to this day why he had followed him, whether it had been out of curiosity, or to determine if Kaal could lead him to freedom . . . or if he had intended what actually occurred to happen all along. The landing area for the incoming ships was not so far beyond the Eye, and Kaal knew that journey all too well. He easily managed to find all the shadows and nooks into which he could fold his diminishing frame between the holding chambers and the fighting arena, and Blackout found himself using them moments later, trailing his steps, mesmerized. As the bedraggled prisoner made his way toward the hangars, two more Badoons had fallen to his cryptic blade (where could he have obtained a weapon like this in the open cells, and where could he have been concealing it?) He then soundlessly approached the entry doors where a third guard was standing watch, unaware of the lissome darkness which was bleeding towards him from the periphery, and in whose wake Blackout was being dragged numbly like a living shroud. This sentry he only threatened, surprising him from the side and then coiling his nimble limbs around him in a serpentine fashion until one knife was at his throat and another at his back (another dagger - but from where?) The Badoon then had no choice but to comply with his assailants request to allow him entrance into the control room. Kaal then grievously wounded his hostage by driving the blade into his back and then throwing the creature aside, howling in agony and bleeding profusely, but still very much alive. _

_This disturbance called the attention of those in the control room - there were two Kodabaks (large and swine-like in appearance) as well as two more Badoons who were hunkered over illuminated screens - and they immediately came to investigate. The first two to venture out into the steadily increasing half-light were the Badoons, and each swiftly suffered a pointed object to the forehead. The Kodabaks then retreated inwards to protect themselves, but it was mere seconds before they were laid out, stunned by the electronic weapons carried by the Badoon guards who had just met their fates. The deathly shadow then slipped into the open room and crept over to the controls which opened the main hangar doors, visible from behind a wide pane of glass at the rear of the chamber. Kaal turned towards them as they parted, his body shifting to face their movement as torpidly as if he were made from clay: the rays of the newly risen sun were just beginning to peek over the horizon beyond, and the vast space was being bathed in extraordinary light. He was enthralled by the illumination, having not seen sunlight for months, probably years, and he inched toward it, stupefied, as if he could not determine the veracity of what he was seeing. _

_The demon breached the interior at that moment, moving as soundlessly as he could manage. He could see Kaal drifting sluggishly toward the brilliant radiance, so enraptured by the sight that he was utterly unaware of his surroundings. It was as if the light were transforming him - his eyes ignited with color as the rays of the sun explored them, and his face softened, losing age and malice as the glow engulfed him. His lips melded into a genuine smile, and his eyes glistened with the ebb of tears. A pained, breathy laugh stammered out from between his clenched teeth . . . and then blackness, overwhelming and impenetrable. The anguished wail which followed brought a remorseful ache to the Lilin's chest. He was unsure of why he had done this, why he had chosen to strip the man of this one happiness among endless days of pervasive pain, but it served a dual purpose - Kaal was blind and therefore completely vulnerable to attack. A company of heavily-armed Badoons subsequently rushed in, and Blackout withdrew the illusion. That was the last time he had seen Kaal, that vicious, haunted look in his eyes boring through the Lilin as the doors closed behind him, the multitude of Badoon guards trying to hold him fast as he howled and struggled against them with a force even he should not have possessed. _

'_Curse you!' the restrained man had spat at him as he was dragged away, shrieking and clawing like a fatally wounded animal. "Damn you! I will find you, you faithless demon! I will repay you in your own miserable blood . . . I promise you that you will gladly skin yourself alive rather than face what I will do to you when I find you-' Kaal's vows continued even after the sound of the guards blows began to intermingle with them, followed shortly by the crunching of distressed bone. His muffled blasphemies continued as the assault went on for what seemed like an impossible amount of time._

Blackout's continued demonstrations of his loyalty were what had allowed him his advantage among the throngs of the malicious and depraved with whom he had been cast down. It was only later when he had learned the similar secret that Kaal had been keeping so buried beneath that pale, perfect skin of his: he was a sorcerer - a being of exquisite magical power who could kill without weapons, or conjure his own as long as his magic was not bound. He had harbored this mutinous secret and used it to his advantage, and so while others had hungered and thirsted and suffered, the mage had been able to eke out just a little bit more than his condemned brethren could by using his magic when there was no one present to witness it. He deserved whatever fiendish trials had befallen him after he tried to escape, and so why should he weep for this trespass against one who was just as duplicitous as he had been? Besides, his associate had gone on to earn his own favor with the Master when he had learned to control that damnable Cube of which everyone seemed to be so fond, and he was not looking too worse for wear during their confrontation at the Raft. They were practically complicit in their crime of thriving in adverse circumstances . . . so why these tormenting images?

During the entire memory, the details had been unspeakably pure, so much so that the deranged sorcerer's words could be heard echoing off the walls of his current enclosure. Was this all a persecution instilled by his own remorseful mind? If he reached an unsteady hand out into the all-consuming blackness would he feel the sinewy form of his rival standing proudly in the darkness, feel the stuttering breath of his laughter seconds before he felt a blade breach his throat? The Lilin could feel beads of moisture forming along the line of his brow, and his breaths were coming hurried and shallow.

"_I will find you . . ._ " came a voice in the void, so convincingly real that goosebumps shivered across the surface of his flesh. "_Demon . . . _" the voice continued in a whispered hiss, and the words were so distinct that the sound hung in the air for several seconds afterwards. Then there was a waft of air as if a body had passed by within inches of where he sat so vulnerably in the blackness. The frequency and intensity of his heartbeats increased, but he ground his pointed fingernails determinedly into his palms as he tried to master his swelling fear, a motion which must have drawn blood because he could feel a warm wetness traveling downward in rivulets across the skin.

"I will not die here!" the Lilin pledged to the emptiness. "If you wish to seek your revenge then do it! I can do nothing but wait for it as I am bound here, caged like an unruly animal!" He paused to growl with contempt at the darkness, but no further sounds or movements could be detected. "Face me and be done with it, instead of taunting me from the shadows like a coward!" he challenged through heaving breaths.

There was no reply.

*.***.*

"He's doing it again, sir," Agent Fallon stated into his headset. "Do you want me to send over the audio?"

Agent Phil Coulson was standing at a self-service checkout station of the all-night supermarket near the townhouse he was currently calling home. "Of course. So what is he yelling about this time?" The cheerful electronic voice from the machine interrupted to give him his total and explain his payment options.

"Pretty much the same as usual: daring someone or some_thing_ to come at him. He seems fairly obsessed with someone being out to get him, I would say," Fallon informed him without humor.

"I have a fair idea of who that might be," Coulson responded. The voice then reminded him to take his receipt and thanked him for shopping with that particular chain of grocery stores. As if he had a choice at 2 a.m., which should actually be their tagline.

"Have you heard from the team in Oklahoma?" Phil asked hopefully as he crossed the half-lit parking area. His ego was still very tender from not being informed of the Loki incident, as well as the boorish decision to take him into custody under such circumstances. Admittedly, there was also a tiny fraction of his psyche which was not exactly celebrating the idea of seeing his murderer again, face-to-face.

"They are en route to the Vault with the cargo now. Preparations are being made here at headquarters for a transfer when the facility is appropriately secure."

"I appreciate the administration keeping me informed of these developments," Coulson sniffed sarcastically. "Are there any further annoying details which I might lose sleep over tonight?"

"Well . . . " teased the voice of the junior agent.

"Why do I feel like I'm going to regret asking that?" Phil grunted. These long days were not doing much to help his patience.

"Tony Stark has insisted on overseeing the construction himself," Fallon confessed. "He says he doesn't want any more clandestine extraterrestrial torture facilities being built by the government. He wants to make sure - and I quote- 'that fascist Asgardian fiend gets treated in a manner he doesn't deserve.'"

Someone up there clearly didn't like him; having to tolerate Stark and his prima donna demands at every turn was the last thing that was going to make this endeavor run smoothly. "Very good, Agent Fallon," Coulson breathed half-heartedly. "The agency thanks you for your extraordinary service in this time of crisis." '_Wow, Phil,' C_oulson thought to himself,_ 'That sounded incredibly cold and impersonal . Bravo. Add a cantankerous undertone which constantly says 'but if you fail me, I will make your life unbearable,' and you could practically be Nick Fury. ' _If there was going to be a new kinder, gentler S.H.I.E.L.D. era, then he was going to have to lead by example. "Listen, R.J.," he started again, "I appreciate you keeping me informed, but it's late, and you've been putting in some long hours lately . . . "

"Yes, sir. That's my job, sir."

"Isn't there anyone waiting for you at home?"

Fallon chuckled good-naturedly. "Just a fat Persian cat that goes by the name 'Maleficent.'"

"Well, she sounds lovely," Phil sighed. _Were they all married to the job after all? _"You should go home for a while and be with her. Read a book - call your parents."

"Afraid that I won't get another chance for a while, sir?" Coulson could hear that he was still smiling, despite his admission that his life was mostly empty.

"Right . . . yes." He didn't have the heart to say what he was really thinking: that it might be his _last_ chance.

"I appreciate your concern, sir, but I know my priorities. Besides, there will be time for all that after retirement, right, sir?"

Phil sincerely hoped the lump in his throat wasn't audible. "Of course there will. Goodnight, R.J."

"Goodnight, sir."

The agent stood frozen under the hum of the dim overhead lights of the parking lot, willing himself forcefully not to shed the tears that he could feel burning behind his eyes. Was this to be his final burden to bear as one of the hidden guardians of this planet? To watch unstoppable evil racing towards everyone he's ever known and being unable to tell anyone that all of their lives were about to end, violently and senselessly?

Coulson fumbled for the keys to the company vehicle he had driven home with him. He placed the bags on the passenger's side and slid into the driver's seat with an exhausted exhale, reaching blindly for the controls to tune in some easy listening to soothe his nerves. Before pulling out, he took a moment to skim through some neglected e-mails and text messages which had been lingering throughout the day. Among these was one from a blocked origin that simply read: "When Loki decides to cooperate, play him the audio. He speaks 36 alien languages, on good authority." It was signed 'BW.'

'Well, then - maybe the fate of the planet is looking up', Coulson mused, but he did not dare to let even the trace of a smile venture across his lips.

*.***.*

Deep within the Rocky Mountains, the former Prince of Asgard was sitting cross-legged and motionless, his countenance fixed in quiet repose. The capabilities of this Midgardian penitentiary were indeed formidable, but his power had grown to the extent that he was able to penetrate its magical defenses, albeit with an extended bout of intense concentration. He was able to contact others for brief periods . . . and others, sadly, could reach him. As he was posed serenely on the bare floor of his reinforced cell, he could sense the consciousness of his Master attempting to commune with him through the layers of confining rock.

"Did we not have an understanding, my friend?" the deep, resonant voice spoke into his mind, its words just the dullest whisper through all the space and earth that lay between them.

"We have a perfect understanding, my Lord," he communicated in return. "My preparations are nearly complete. You will have what you require in mere days."

"Do not disappoint me, my Dark Prince," He bellowed across the vast distance that separated them. "I have plans which cannot linger, and if you fail me again, I will see that all you hold dear is ground into dust. You cannot hide from me - as you have discovered."

Loki bowed his head, ashamed of the weakness he had shown which had led him to this vile servitude. His voice cracked as he replied, betraying his humiliation, "I am yours, my Lord. I serve you gladly and utterly."

"Excellent, my friend," the voice boomed heartily. "I must have it by Terra's next full moon or you will find that I am a man of my word." The words hovered malevolently in the air for several moments before the threat finally dropped. "If you do not deliver it, then I will destroy your brother and all of Asgard with him - the only home you have ever known will burn to embers, and it will be your transgressions that will be its cause."

Loki visibly flinched at this omen, deepening his shame by his blatant show of sentiment. "I will see it done," he vowed steadfastly. "Have no doubts in this regard: I will bring you what you desire," He felt the presence of the other leave him then, and he communicated his relief in an elongated sigh.

'_I will bring you what you desire,' _he vowed to the empty blackness, _"Indeed, I shall . . .'_


	12. Part III: Bargaining Ch 3

-3-

S.H.I.E.L.D.'s newest captive had to spend two weeks shackled in a dungeon-like cell deep within the confines of the Vault until adequate holding facilities could be constructed for him at agency headquarters. During this time, Thor remained nearby in a company safehouse, and while he checked in with the staff at the prison regularly to ensure that his sibling was treated humanely, he did not visit him. It would simply be too difficult to face that deteriorating version of his brother with any regular frequency. It was better to save his emotional reserves for when they were at the Hub, when Loki's cooperation was imperative to halting the wave of evil which was threatening to consume this world . . . and, likely, worlds beyond.

Meanwhile, a team of top secret architects, engineers, and construction personnel readied a suitable series of rooms back at HQ where Loki would be held, and - assuming he was agreeable - where he would work. It was the agency's proposal that the criminal be allowed to offer his cooperation in the field of extraterrestrial intelligence in exchange for leniency in his eventual sentencing for the incident in Manhattan, although Nick Fury appeared less than satisfied with this development; he had lured Loki to the rendezvous under the guise of helping them in exchange for harboring the fugitive from his interstellar enemies. He had not been aware that the agency intended to take him as a prisoner. The operation had been bungled from all sides, it seemed, and, in the end, no one was content with the outcome.

The issue seemed to be that S.H.I.E.L.D. was no longer in charge of managing the threat to Earth, and jurisdiction had been given over to a sister-agency known as S.W.O.R.D. - Sentient World Observation and Response Department - which was only in its infancy. After the upheaval at S.H.I.E.L.D., S.W.O.R.D. was at least as developed as its predecessor but with slightly more manpower. Plus, it was formed to handle hazards like this one. So the bureaucrats gave S.W.O.R.D. the go-ahead to take over the operation (code name "Lokasenna"), and their agents largely replaced the ones that were originally assigned. When Iron Man made an unexpected appearance in the middle of their risky venture, the senior S.W.O.R.D. agent had made the call to bring in the enemy before he could flee. Without Thor's intervention, however, the entire ordeal would have been a dismal, costly failure. Not that this thought gave the warrior any comfort whatsoever.

Meanwhile, Tony had travelled to the Hub to supervise the preparations for the "Supervillain Suite," as he had deemed it. Although his assistance was spurious in the beginning, consisting mostly of wisecracks and insults aimed toward those who were allied with the S.W.O.R.D. faction of the project, he eventually settled into a quieter routine, using his billion dollar neurons for more useful pursuits than verbal abuse. He again proved himself to be quite the engineer, but when one of his concepts was particularly successful, he did not tend to let the others forget it. The senior S.W.O.R.D. agent on this assignment, Agent Gyrich, often bore the brunt of Tony's displeasure, and not gladly, at that.

"So, Good-Witch, are there any other super-secret and cleverly acronymed government agencies out there that we - referring to myself as a layman, of course - are unaware of?" Tony mocked from beneath the visor of his welding mask. "And if so, are they all named after items that you can buy at the gift shop at Medieval Times? For example, will your lovable band of misfits be superseded by a group of agents from a previously unknown department named C.O.D.P.I.E.C.E., perhaps?"

Gyrich remained stoic, refusing to answer Stark's challenges with anything more than a raised eyebrow. However, his policy of silence did nothing to stem the tide of comments that Tony was unleashing with the glee of a schoolboy. Over the next fifteen minutes, the taciturn agent was bombarded with endless suggestions for what the individuals letters in C.O.D.P.I.E.C.E. might represent, none of which were flattering. After the billionaire finished fusing the last bit of the joint he was attempting to seal, he removed his equipment and dropped onto the nearby bench, a self-satisfied air wafting over him. "The good news, Agent Garbage," Tony concluded, "is that I will be back here in about three hours with a very talented catering staff and a ridiculous array of hors d'oeuvres in order to declare the Supervillain Suite officially open for residence. How does that sound?"

The S.W.O.R.D. agent did not react.

"You can tell your minions to move the Scourge of Upper Manhattan here at their leisure," Stark instructed, checking the time on his cell. "Personally, I have a date with someone who is not dressed in one of a thousand identical black-and-white suits and is a much more engaging conversationalist. Ta-ta!" Tony stood and gave the agent a comically stiff salute before breezing out of the room.

As the door closed behind him, Gyrich gave a relieved sigh and finally allowed himself a smile.

*.***.*

"I'm going with you," Clint insisted, reaching for his jacket. There was an implacable determination in his voice which put Natasha immediately on the defensive.

"I don't think that's the best idea, Clint," she retorted, unable to keep the resistive nature of her tone completely restrained. "They're bringing Loki to the Hub as a potential source of information. Any emotional interference on your part will likely jeopardize his cooperation."

Agent Barton rounded on her, the look on his face one of both shock and disappointment. "Unbelievable, Nat," he huffed. "I cannot believe that you would go all 'protocol' on me about this."

"Believe it, Clint," she stated solemnly. "I cannot let you hinder this operation for personal reasons. It's too damn important." As soon as the expletive left her mouth, she knew it had been a mistake; it placed too much gravity on the situation with Loki and possibly, depending on how he chose to interpret it, a de-emphasis on his own inner conflict. Of course, Natasha was not unconcerned with his mental state - actually, quite the opposite when you consider how few hours of sleep she had been able to achieve lately - it was just that the stakes in this confrontation were much higher than for anything that had come before, perhaps in the history of the planet.

Coulson had spent most of his morning briefing a few key players (including herself on a very secure line) on the 'Thanos Imperative,' and the imminent likelihood of a devastating attack from a hostile alien force seemed to be an ominous prospect. If true, there would likely be no portal to close this time and no hope that a fighting force made up of a few gifted individuals would be able to curb the onslaught. If this 'Mad Titan' did have designs on their world, he would presumably have the ability to strike undetected and with a force that was rivalled by none in the universe, a campaign which would extinguish life on the planet in a matter of days if not hours. Unravelling the mysteries of the dual jailbreaks and the force or forces behind them had become a matter of immediate concern - and their best hope was also their most perilous. To place their trust in a being who until just recently had been the planet's most insidious enemy was perhaps the purest insanity, but it was a testament to how hopeless Coulson suspected their situation had become. S.W.O.R.D., however, was counseling him to delay any rash actions involving the captive Asgardian until more intelligence could be gathered.

"I assure you that I don't know anything for certain," the senior Agent had confessed during the conference call. "I can't tell you that our days are numbered. Thanos does exist - of this I _am _sure, and he is not the kind of guy whose attention we want to attract. And I promise you that I intend to be prepared for all possible scenarios, even the most desperate ones," Phil had spoken as his parting words. Natasha could hear the truth of what she feared very plainly in his voice: he already believed it. In his heart, he was convinced that this was a bonafide End-of the-World scenario, and he was preparing to fight just as unscrupulously as was necessary to combat the impossible odds. So it was either Blackout or Loki - someone needed to start spilling some intel, and the results needed to be immediate.

And now Clint was reading the reality of this all-consuming jeopardy in her unsettled eyes.

"What's going on?" Barton demanded of her. "What aren't you telling me?"

"You know I can't tell you anything," she responded, her eyes refusing to meet his, a reaction which was blatantly guilty. "If I could, I would already have told you."

He clamped a hand onto the crook of her arm with too much force, and she gasped in both surprise and a modicum of pain. "Bullshit, Natasha! This is more than just business - you know this is personal for me! There's nothing stopping you from telling me other than your own ludicrous sense of morality!" His eyes were wild and unfeeling, and he pulled her flush against his body roughly. She tensed reflexively into a defensive stance, preparing to physically retaliate if necessary. She could feel that he was about to lose control of his actions, and she secretly steeled herself to respond in whichever ways were necessary to de-escalate the situation. "Tell me, dammit!" he spat. "Tell me what has you so afraid, or -"

"Or what, Clint? Or what!" she shouted back at him, refusing to shrink from his show of aggression. "You'll hit me? You'll _kill_ me?" She felt his grip slacken a bit as she said these words. "You wouldn't even get started before I knocked you on your sorry ass," she taunted him more softly, bringing a hint of a smile to his lips that she carefully mirrored. He released his hold on her, and she watched meticulously as the reason returned to his features before she relaxed her posture. As his muscles loosened, she could see the shame creeping over him, and he ran his hand impulsively through his hair, gripping unkindly at the roots in frustration.

"What did Loki do to you?" she asked, gently but firmly. "It was more than just mind control so don't try to tell me differently."  
"I don't know, Nat. I'm - I'm sorry." He was averting his gaze with clear embarrassment. "I'm so sorry." His voice was trembling with the imminent tears which he was trying to restrain. "I wish I could tell you, but I'm just not sure exactly what happened to me." He turned away, humiliated, and she placed a hesitant hand on his shoulder. "I'm just - I'm _changed_ somehow."

She was unsure if he would allow the gesture, but she embraced him from behind. To her wonder, he wrapped a determined arm over her right one and interlaced their fingers. His breath was coming in difficult gasps, and she knew he was still struggling with the will to just sob hopelessly. When his respirations softened, she rested her chin on his left shoulder and tightened her hold around his chest.

"I'm broken, Nat," he whispered, defeated.

"No," she breathed. "You're human. There's absolutely no shame in that." They stood entwined like this for several minutes, the only audible sound being the other's breathing. Finally, Natasha stated, "You know I have to go, right?"

He nodded. "This is really important, huh?" he chuckled weakly.

"It would have to be for me to leave you right now," she assured him. She squeezed his hand firmly before untangling her fingers from his. "Just trust me - it's a big deal." They faced each other again, and there was a long, awkward moment where neither one of them knew what to do or say. Finally, they both succumbed at once to the urge to embrace the other, and their holds lingered just a little longer than what was considered comfortable between friends. When she looked into his eyes again, she felt tears threatening to well up in her own, and so she quickly looked down and away. "Goodbye, Clint," she mumbled, praying that the tremble in her voice wasn't obvious.

"Goodbye, Nat," he answered with a surprising smile, his own words somewhat tremulous and his eyes still wet.

Natasha gathered up her jacket and reseated the holster at her hip. Then she inhaled deeply in an effort to regain control of her quickly faltering composure. "Do me a favor," she requested, still not meeting his gaze. "Try not to be too hard on yourself . . . while I'm gone, I mean."

"I can try," Barton replied, "but I make no promises."

"You never do," she said to the floor. "It's one of the things I've always loved about you." With these words, she turned to make a hasty exit, her legs carrying her down the hall with a determination she didn't really feel. She could hear Clint's footsteps behind her, and her thoughts immediately turned desperate. _Please, Clint, don't make a scene. Not here where Stark has eyes in every room . . . _

The footsteps halted, and she could not help herself - she turned to see if he had indeed tried to pursue her. He had followed her to the doorway, and he was tarrying there, his face drawn with indecision. Finally, he said, "Hey . . . Nat?"

"Yeah, Clint?"

He had folded his hands and was absently wringing them in a habitual fashion. When he eventually did speak, he did not meet her eyes. "Call me when you get to the Hub, okay? So I know that everything's alright?"

"Sure," she replied. Certainly, she would call him.

Even if everything was going to be far from alright.

*.***.*

True to her word, Natasha did place a call to Agent Barton just before she entered the Hub, as cell phone use inside the premises was severely limited by agency protocols. Strangely, it went straight through to voicemail, and so she left a reassuringly upbeat message about being just fine and expressed that she hoped he was much the same. Then she powered the device down before she stepped over the threshold of the main entrance. She knew that his well-being was now completely out of her control, and she would be unable to check in with him for an unknown span of time.

"Please be alright, Clint," she whispered to herself as she entered the agency compound. "Please, _please_ be alright . . . "

"Agent Romanov?" said a voice as she entered the highest security sector of the building. Agent Melinda May was waiting for her at the perimeter of the holding area, and while Natasha knew her only by reputation, that reputation did garner her a fair amount of respect. Referred to cryptically as "the Cavalry," May was known for being a one-woman - well, whatever the agency needed her to be. Even if they had never interacted, Natasha felt a kinship with this woman whose life was strictly her work; she could almost imagine them meeting for ridiculously overpriced coffee when all of this was over. Well, if anything existed when all of this was over.

"Have they brought him in yet?" Romanov asked after the cursory introductions were complete.

May nodded, her manner stern but calm. "He was brought in several hours ago. He seems pretty subdued so far, although I didn't really interact with him in Manhattan so I wouldn't know firsthand." She led the red-haired agent through several well-guarded checkpoints. "I understand you did, though."

Natasha indicated the affirmative. "On the Helicarrier, actually," she replied. "He was a worthy opponent, I have to confess. I'm not exactly sure what his being 'subdued' this time around really means for us. I mean, last time he was passive but talkative, and it turned out to be an elaborate ruse."

"Well, he's certainly not very conversational right now," May informed her. "He'll interact, but only with certain personnel. He's actually not at all like I imagined him, at least from the way everyone has described him."

"Really?" Romanov countered with an intrigued tilt of her head.

As she considered the implications of Agent May's description, the pair rounded the corner to where Loki's quarters had been constructed. There was a large room, about 15' x 20', with a few drab furnishings which were all built to prison-friendly specifications. There appeared to be a couple more rooms beyond which would afford the prisoner at least the illusion of more privacy, although Natasha was certain these were also highly surveilled. The wall which faced the hallway appeared to be some sort of glass or clear plastic in nature, but she could see from the close-up views on the monitors in the control room (which was positioned directly in front of the cell) that there were thin strips of reinforcing metal which formed a mesh beneath the transparent outer layer. She could only assume that the most sophisticated magic-containing technology had been borrowed from their Asgardian allies in order to assure that their fallen Prince would not slip his leash this time. There was also an entire squadron of surveillance staff buzzing about the control area, which gave the impression that S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't so much restraining a supervillain as launching a manned space mission.

"Well, this is a little . . ." Natasha paused in order to find the right word. " . . . surreal."

She surveyed the contents of the room preemptively, scanning for signs of the extraterrestrial inmate it contained. On first glance, it was unoccupied . . . but then she saw the trace of a lump cowering under the covers of the rudimentary bed in the foreground, a crown of black hair at its peak. As if sensing her presence, the lump stirred and elongated, tossing the blanket aside in a manner that was both spontaneous and elegant. The figure beneath stood and stretched briefly and then crossed in front of the long transparent wall, moving as if he either did not know or did not care that there were about a dozen other persons in his general vicinity. It was unmistakably Loki: a tall, graceful being with a porcelain complexion and a fearless swagger. And yet there was something that was fundamentally different: he was clad in a shapeless gray prison uniform, and the clothing hung from him like an ill-fitting costume, the width of the fabric incongruous to his towering frame. He seemed so slight with his limbs clad in such conventional garments, as if he weighed next to nothing, and it made him seem anything but intimidating.

"Is he how you remember him?" Agent May inquired formally.

"He seems a little rangy," Romanov quipped. "What have they been feeding him out in Colorado?"

"Would you believe 'fava beans and a nice chianti'?" asked a voice to their right, imitating the trademark stuttering inhalation that accompanied the quote.

Natasha was fairly sure that the sound of her eyes rolling up into her head could be heard across the room. "Stark! Imagine seeing you here," she chided brusquely.

"Why I practically built the place, Agent Romanov!" Tony bragged. "And don't worry, my dear, he can't see you - there is a one-way panel which keeps him from seeing out unless we want him to."

"Excuse me, Agent Romanov, Mr. Stark." May nodded to each of them in turn. "I have an operations meeting with Agent Coulson that I need to attend." Her disposition had grown stilted as soon as Tony had made them aware of his presence, betraying that she likely wasn't very fond of him. She left without any further comment.

"So, my dear Natasha," Tony grinned, "What do you think of the new digs? Pretty outstanding if I do say so myself . . . and I do, obviously. In case that part was at all unclear."

The red-headed woman sneered playfully at him. "I have to admit they are pretty impressive."

Stark placed an unwanted hand gently in the small of her back and eased her over for a closer inspection. "From inside this gilded cage, our little jailbird is under constant supervision, his vital signs being continuously monitored and displayed for about a dozen other people to study and become completely bored doing it." He shoved his hands in his pockets and lifted his shoulders like a self-satisfied child.

"Just vitals? No heat signatures? Infrared?"

"Oh, but of course! I spared no expense to house Loki-Dokey over there. And I want to be sure that there is no way he is going to be throwing his image and then running one of us through with any pointy-glowy things this time around." The pair had continued to approach the room as they spoke, halting just inches from the perimeter. The being it contained continued to move about routinely, offering no indication that he was at all aware of the team of agents just outside his chambers.

Suddenly, the atmosphere somehow changed, and, although Natasha could sense that something was altered, she was unsure of exactly what it could be. It was a different feel to the air around them somehow, and when she glanced over Stark's shoulder (he was turned towards her now) she knew instantly what it had been: Loki had turned to face them, and he was staring straight in their direction, obviously aware that they were standing just inches from him and separated by a relatively thin layer of - whatever it was. Tony continued to extol his own virtues, babbling on about the masterful way in which he had completed his task, and yet all the while the Asgardian was approaching their position, gaze trained unmistakably on the pair of them. Agent Romanov knew that her mouth had fallen open, but she was unable to make any noises to warn the other man about the approaching figure. As Loki drew nearer, she was finally able to discern the details of his face: he looked drawn, weary, and his eyes were almost hollow as he trained them upon her, drawing ever closer by agonizingly slow degrees. His raven, shoulder-length plaits fell in unkempt folds alongside his countenance as he bent his head down towards them, his hands still clasped neatly at his back, and just as his visage fitted itself neatly behind Tony's left shoulder, Stark pivoted slightly to follow her line of sight, meeting the gaze of the ancient creature behind him with full-on shock.

"Oh, holy shit!" Tony gasped, starting violently and then clutching his chest in undignified panic.

There was a long moment of complete silence, and then Natasha erupted into laughter. After all the dread of facing Loki again, the gnawing anticipation mixed with the horror from facing him in her dreams, this result was surprising even to her. However, the absurdity of Tony's surprise and his subsequently inelegant response was just too much to resist. After a few seconds more, the agents in the control room echoed her with full-on amusement, and Natasha turned towards the outpouring of mirth, a wide smile still on her face. She noticed Agent May standing next to the far end of the control panel, arms folded, barely restraining a mischievous grin of her own.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stark. I must have flipped something," she shrugged. "My bad." At that, the room erupted into another fit of hysterics.

Natasha continued to giggle until tears welled up in her eyes. "You should have seen yourself, Stark . . . that was priceless!" Tony did not seem to agree, however, judging by the crimson creeping from his neck to his ears.

Behind him, Loki had risen back to his full height, an amused simper playing upon his lips. He still looked dishevelled, and his complexion appeared to have an almost sickly gray undertone. Furthermore, the look on his face was wild, almost savage - the effect was indescribable. He was like a dying animal, and yet he still projected enough strength and focus to strongly discourage anyone's interference with his progressive demise. "Forgive me, Mr. Stark," he purred, his voice still as calm and lilting as she remembered it. "I hope I didn't frighten you." Tony did not reply, as if knowing that there would be no denying he had been spooked to see Loki standing behind him based on his ridiculous reaction. "Agent Romanov," the prisoner continued, training his attention on her now. "What a pleasure to see you again."

Having those piercingly cruel eyes upon her sobered her mood instantly. "I wish I could say the same about you," Natasha replied. She instinctively crossed her arms over her chest protectively.

"So I gather you have not been thinking about me?" he countered. Their eyes met in a sentient glare.

"No," she lied. "Not at all."


	13. Part III: Bargaining Ch 4

-4-

"So what did it take?" Romanov asked as they observed the prisoner working diligently through the observation window.

Coulson was watching with her, and he had been mostly silent as they looked on. "We had to promise him his life, of course, as well as asylum from his domestic and interstellar enemies. He also wants to stay in his rooms here at the Hub; I'm guessing he prefers it to the dismal accommodations at the Vault."

"Isn't that going to be a little weird? Having a supervillain living on the premises while conducting sensitive, top-secret intelligence work?" Natasha had taken to dressing again in her black company uniform, and it was certainly helping her feel the part of a fearless undercover operative. It also reminded her that she should probably start ordering the non-fat lattes, as she had grown surprisingly fond of the beverages despite their farcical cost; this fabric was not at all forgiving.

"It will be," Phil sighed. "However, we will deal with that when and if we all survive long enough to have to worry about it." His forehead creased deeply with concern.

"Has he seen _you _yet?" She couldn't help but ask this with a wry bit of humor.

Phil shook his head, one finger pressed anxiously to his chin and his lips squeezed into a tight line.

"Can I please be there when he does?" she jested, nudging him playfully with her elbow.

Coulson did venture a hint of a smile, but he did not laugh. "I'm not sure he's going to get that opportunity."

Natasha rested a reassuring hand on his bicep. "Come on, Phil," she coaxed. "I know that this has been a serious emotional trauma for you, but I think it would be therapeutic if you faced him."

The male agent just nodded willfully and said nothing.

"Besides," she reasoned, "how often do you get to watch a god's head explode?"

He did chuckle softly at this notion. "I suppose that would be novel. Almost as novel as being able to confront your own murderer." He looked back into the holding cell as if he were imagining the scenario. "That is a contingency most people don't get to experience."

"See," she urged him, "you have two compelling reasons to do it. Three, if you count that 'it might be good for you' thing."

"What about Agent Barton?" Coulson asked hesitantly. "Would you offer him the same advice?"

Her face became more serious while she contemplated this inquiry. "That is trickier," she confessed. "At this point, I would advise him against it. He's not in a good place right now - he's still pretty emotionally unstable."

"I'm sorry to hear that," the senior agent replied gently.

"Eventually, I think he'll need a huge emotional outlet in order to really get past it all," she murmured. "I just think it will be _years_ before he's prepared for that."

"Is he still seeing the counselor?"

"No," she smirked. "That didn't really go so well, either."

"I have a bit of a funny anecdote in that area, if you don't mind my changing the subject a little." Coulson's face formed into an incipient grin. Natasha nodded her consent. "I know S.W.O.R.D. is new to this arena, but I couldn't help but be amused by their negotiation strategy. Their senior agent on this - Henry Gyrich, I don't know if you've met him yet - has insisted on leading the mediation. He's a good man - I mean, I was at the academy with him, and he's tough as nails but not really battle-tested. He sat down with Loki like he was his defense lawyer, trying to be his friend and lull him into a false sense of security."

"Interesting choice of method," Natasha huffed, one eyebrow crooked with sarcastic disapproval.

"Indeed," Coulson conceded. "Anyway, he got him to agree quickly to all the things he would have been promised even if he hadn't been taken prisoner: his life and protection from enemies in exchange for information. So it was, in essence, going very smoothly; no harm, no foul. Loki tried to add on a few ridiculous requests just to throw Gyrich off his game a little, but Henry held firm, and things looked like they were wrapping up nicely. So just when the rest of the team is getting ready to pack up and leave, Gyrich does something . . . well, it was bizarre. Like, indescribably brazen."

"I take it not 'good' brazen. If there is such a thing."

"Oh, not at all. He throws down this folio of documents, and it lands in front of Loki with a very loud smack. Loki raises an eyebrow as only he can, and then he just stares at Gyrich as if to say, 'And this would be . . . ?'"

"I can imagine it all quite clearly," Natasha praised.

"'Oh, and by the way,' Gyrich said, 'that's the outline for your rehabilitation plan.'"

"What?!" Natasha nearly shouted, her words echoing painfully in the corridor outside the control room.

"I believe that would be the appropriate response. You could have knocked me over with a feather, Agent Romanov, you truly could have. I mean, that took way more . . . " he cleared his throat, "testicular fortitude than I would have had under any circumstances."

"And what did Loki do?" Natasha was leaning in like they were a couple of gossiping old women sharing a scandalous bit of small town news, but she simply could not prevent herself.

"Well, he was completely mute, but that eyebrow kept creeping up like it was going to fly right off his forehead. Gyrich just kept talking, though - telling him how he was serving at our pleasure, and he was going to have to work to earn our gracious hospitality. He kept going on and on about how Loki was going to have to submit himself to psychiatric counseling five days a week, how he would need to consent to experimental doses of antipsychotics in order to treat his 'condition,' etc., etc. - how he was going to come out of this as a valued asset to the United States government."

"No!" the female agent gasped.

"Oh, yes. I almost had to call for a wheelbarrow to pick my jaw up off the floor. It was really transcendental stuff."

"I can't even imagine!" Natasha wheezed. "Please tell me that Gyrich is still alive."

"I don't even know how to describe the response to you. Well, actually, I can describe it nearly word-for-word because I've watched the playback so many times, but I don't know that I fully understand it, even now . . . "

*.***.*

Loki just sat there silently, hands folded and his eyes boring into the agent but smiling like he found the whole situation delightfully comical. "Sit down, please, Agent Gyrich," he instructed smoothly; it was every inch a request and not a demand, which was stunning in and of itself.

Gyrich hesitated, the corner of his mouth twitching with an uncertainty he was desperately trying to smother. After a few painful seconds, he slowly came to rest in the seat across from the Asgardian, now with just a few inches of tabletop separating them.

"I just want to be clear, Henry - may I call you Henry?" Loki continued in a sweet, gentle manner. The agent nodded and folded his arms, still trying to convey a mettle he did not completely possess. "Oh, good. You see, I want us to understand one another." His silky, tranquil tone stood in flagrant contrast to the haunted cast in the blue-green orbs which followed Gyrich's every twitch like a lazy housecat. He leaned back against the chair he occupied and drew one knee over the other in a motion which was excruciating in its sloth. "Do you know how old I am?"

"I do not," the man replied bluntly. He sensed a trap of some kind, but he was powerless to avoid any consequences by this point.

"I am one-thousand and forty-nine years old," Loki said matter-of-factly. There was neither malice nor pride in this statement. "If I live as long as the average members of my race, I will exist for about another four millennia." The raven-haired being began to pick absently at the cuff of his right trouser leg, and then smoothed out the fabric with an elegant brush of his long, slender fingers. "Yet . . . " Loki cooed, "Even if I endure for as many years as I potentially may, and if you add that to the long years I have already lived, I would still not have enough time to consider your _pathetic proposal."_ As his words turned acrid, he placed two fingers firmly on the document which Gyrich had tossed at him and pushed it back across the surface of the table toward the agent. When he did so, the man recoiled slightly. "You see, _Henry_," the Asgardian spat as if choking on the name, "it is not in your best interest to rehabilitate me, because there are lines of morality that your soldiers and 'good men' will not cross." Loki leaned forward and placed his hands on the tabletop, interlacing his fingers and inclining his head toward the agent. "Those lines mean _nothing _to the enemy you face. He sees you not as a means to an end but rather as an obstacle to be removed and brushed aside." The longer he spoke, the more deep and raspy his voice was becoming. "It is time," he finished, his eyes suddenly ablaze with a menacing radiance, his smile still wide like it was no more than a mask clinging to the diminishing flesh beneath it.

Every eye in the room was fixed on Agent Gyrich, who sat frozen, dumbfounded, and unmoving for several moments. Then his lips moved minutely, and he uttered, "Time for what?"

The older being bared his teeth slightly, and then his chest rumbled with derisive laughter. "It's time that you woke up to the potential for evil in this universe," Loki hissed. "There is cruelty on other worlds which you cannot even fathom, and it has made countless monsters of 'good men,'" he mocked callously. "You will be faced with this Darkness, and you will fall to it," he scoffed, one hand clenched now into a fist which was fixed to the table. "And you will be forgotten."

Gyrich had paled, but he still held his position with as much honor as he could manage.

"You are going to need someone who knows that kind of evil _intimately_ if you are going to be able to meet it with any substance at all," Loki continued. "And - if I'm not misguided - you have precious few options in that area. So, admit it, my dear Henry . . . " he seethed, "I am much more use to you crazy." The Asgardian then leaned against the backrest of his seat and splayed his long legs out before him.

The team of negotiators sat in uncomfortable silence for a time, and then Loki dismissed them with an imperious wave of his hand. Eager to escape the tension, the majority of the agents grabbed their equipment and made a swift exit; Gyrich, however, moved to stand more languidly, his demeanor relating that he was still trying to determine when he had lost control of the conversation. He was instantly reminded when the folder of documents landed in his unsuspecting arms.

"Do not forget to take that drivel," Loki fumed. "We will not be needing it any longer."

The senior agent was the last to depart, a puzzled and broken look remaining plastered on his features. Just as he was reaching the exit, he turned back to the Asgardian who was now sitting mutely, a finger crooked to his chin. "I . . . I don't understand," Gyrich stated uncertainly. "Do we have a deal or not? I mean - about all the other things?"

Loki looked at him with exasperation. "I suppose I have a vested interest in saving your feeble little world now, seeing how I am trapped upon it," he snapped testily. "Consider that to be most fortunate for you." With these words, he waved Gyrich away again, and this time, he departed without further comment.

*.***.*

"So whose idea do you think it was?" Natasha asked. "The rehabilitation thing, I mean?"

"I can't even begin to imagine," Coulson replied, shaking his head again in disbelief. "I find it miraculous that he's even still helping us."

"Have you played him the audio from the Raft?"

"We haven't yet," Phil revealed. "I was actually waiting for you to arrive, so you could assist me in watching his reaction. I want a second opinion on how genuine he's being with us, and you seem to be a better reader of Loki than the average 'Earthling'," he quipped.

"What about the video? Have you shown him that?"

Coulson indicated that they had. "He was not able to expound upon anything beyond what we had already determined."

"That's disappointing," Natasha admitted. Then she fell silent for a few moments as if turning the information over in her head anew. "I have to confess that there is something about that video that disturbs me."

"Oh?"

"That blue light - the one that starts right before all the commotion. When everything else goes black, it doesn't," she considered aloud. "I'm assuming that Blackout was doing his little parlor trick, because I've checked the records and there was no internal loss of power. But why the glow? It never went out, even when everything else went dark."

"Hmmm - it's a good point," Phil commented. "I actually haven't considered that. It might be worth running some tests with Blackout's abilities to see if we can find anything that might resist the effect. That is if he agrees . . . or if we can trick him into a few spontaneous demonstrations."

"We should also probably ask him what the blue glow was," Natasha deadpanned.

"That too," Coulson agreed. "Couldn't hurt."

"So can we have Loki listen to the audio now?" she inquired.

"We may as well." Phil rapped on the one-way glass. "Agent Fallon?" he asked while activating the microphone in his earpiece.  
The young man at Loki's side pressed a finger to his ear. "Yeah, boss?"

"Play him the audio from the Raft, please, R.J. I want to know the origin of the language and the identity of the speakers along with the translation, if he knows."

"Sure thing, sir," the junior agent chirped. There were some words and hand gestures exchanged between Fallon and the staff in the control room for half a minute, followed by a brief but seemingly cordial conversation between the young agent and Loki. Shortly afterwards, the cryptic voices began playing over the speakers both in and outside the holding cell.

The Asgardian appeared to be listening intently, a focused but troubled twist to his features. After twenty seconds or so, Loki asked for the recording to be restarted from the beginning, presumably to discern more details from a second listen. When the other voice came in, however, there was a distinct change in his face; his look went from sharply blank to distraught, and then descended quickly into pained disbelief.

"He understands it," Coulson murmured, with a hopeful note in his words.

"Most likely," Natasha agreed. He could be only pretending, she knew; he was certainly intelligent enough to pull off such an elaborate deceit. Yet it looked purely genuine from where she sat, and the distress was particularly convincing. In fact, by the time the entire playback ended, he was visibly perspiring, and he was rubbing his index finger repeatedly across his chin in frenzied thought.

"Bring me some paper . . . and something with which I can write," he stated while still gazing at nothing.

The young agent stared at him questioningly.

"I want to write it down," Loki growled irascibly. When there was still no response, he strengthened his inflection: "Now!"

R.J. began to dig clumsily through his satchel for a pen and paper, pulling out unnecessary objects as he went and tossing them aside in desperation. When he found the items he desired, he held them cautiously out toward the other being who snatched them away in a movement which was nearly imperceptible. Loki hastily began scribbling with the ballpoint, scratching words furiously across the paper.

"Should I have them replay the audio, then?" Fallon asked delicately.

"Not necessary," the black-haired man shot back, all the while continuing to write with feverish enthusiasm.

"But don't you want to -"

"I do not need to hear it again," Loki enunciated clearly without looking up from his efforts. He continued his writing for another few minutes, and then he paused to reread what he had created, swiftly skimming his eyes back and forth across the transcript he had produced without making any corrections. "Here is what they said," he concluded flatly, forcing the paper into the agent's hands. "I have indicated the language and the identities of the speakers accordingly," he added blandly.

Fallon looked out towards Phil and Natasha, pleading for guidance.

"I think you're done for the day, R.J.," Coulson commended him. "Why don't you bring that out so we can begin to analyze it."

Agent Fallon responded to the voice in his ear with a curt nod, and then a few conclusive words of goodbye to the inmate, who was now pointedly ignoring him. "Is there anything else I can do for you before I go?" the agent offered as he was gathering up his work gear. Natasha smiled to herself at how sweet the gesture was, particularly since the young man seemed to ask reflexively, almost as if his manners had blindly taken over. Not anticipating an answer, he was partway into the chamber's anteroom before he heard Loki speak.

"Yes, actually, there is," the Asgardian said offhandedly. Fallon hesitated but did not look back. "Never make me listen to that again," Loki stated with firm resolution.

*.***.*

The hand in which the conversation was written was a careful, elegant script; Natasha would have known it was Loki's even if she hadn't witnessed him producing it. It was refined even with the hasty imperfections it contained, seeming almost ancient in its complexity, and yet clearly drafted with a modern ballpoint pen. It read as follows:

_The language is that of Titan. _

_(Voice number one: Only known to me as 'Mephisto.' )_

_M: Everything is going smoothly so far, my friend. The prison incidents have caused plenty of chaos, and the Terrans have been suitably distracted. It is only a matter of time now before we claim this world and rid the universe of its (pause) unpleasant inhabitants. Please tell me that you are still going to allow me dominion over those souls who are unfortunate enough to survive?_

_(Voice number two: Thanos of Titan)_

_T: Of course, of course, you evil fiend! I would not dream of depriving you of the pleasure of numerous years of torment and persecution. You have more than earned a little hell-fire for your own gratification._

_M: Oh, bless you, you crazy (no direct word in Midgardian English; probably the closest would be 'bastard')! You will also be most pleased with the sorcerer. He has reclaimed the Cube from the underwater prison, and he is making preparations to see it returned to your hands. In fact, he has exceeded our expectations by destroying the place and leaving no witnesses. We should be able to advance the Skrull army within a few Terran days. _

_T: We are ahead of schedule, then?_

_M: Of course! I am a natural leader, you know. So now we can proceed with deciding how we shall execute the actual attack. I favor slaughtering the males, which they will undoubtedly send out first, and saving the more helpless ones for the subsequent torments. Their females and their young have much loftier voices and, therefore, create the most exquisite cries. Although, we will need a few strong male specimens to save for breeding. Their lifespans are lamentably short, as you know. _

_T: Yes. They are quite pitiful, aren't they?_

_M: Oh, deliciously so. I am (indecipherable due to static) anticipation of what's next. I only hope that he does not fail us. _

_T: He wouldn't dare._

_M: I hope for both of our sakes that you are correct. Without it, everything does rather fall apart, doesn't it? Oh (pause) their forces of authority have arrived. I will contact you next at the time and place we agreed. Farewell._

_T: Farewell. _

Natasha read over the words twice, and then once again before she handed the paper back to Phil, her hand trembling ever so slightly. "I need to know if this is genuine," she said. "I want to speak to Blackout."

"I still can't guarantee his cooperation," Coulson informed her. "Even if we confirm the veracity of this - and I'm still not exactly certain what I'm reading here - what do we do with it?"

"Loki needs to talk. Get Fallon back in there and get that son-of-a-bitch to tell us everything: about Mephisto, about Thanos, about anyone else he can think of who might be a threat. We need to do whatever it takes to start him spilling information."

Phil looked skeptical. "Can we really act outside of our protocols at this point, Agent Romanov? I mean, we haven't verified this intel, and we have a code of ethics . . . "

"_Days_, Phil. They spoke of a span days until they would be ready to mount an offensive! If we're wrong, we've wasted a few days time; if we're right, we have impossible odds to face and probably less than a hundred hours in which to do it."

Coulson was obviously struggling with this decision. His face was an obvious mask of misery, considering the consequences and weighing them against the enormity of the actions he would be forced to order. "But if it's not real . . . " he said weakly and mostly to himself. "I need to be able to sleep at night after all of this has ended."

"Do you think you can sleep as it is? Do you want to read this again?" Natasha shoved the page back towards him, but he did not move to take it. He shook his head; he appeared exhausted and emotionally drained. After a few more minutes of strained silence, he put his hand up to his earpiece. "Agent May?" He paused to listen for a response, and then continued. "I need you to declare a Level Nine emergency with all necessary protocols in effect, including the emergency lockdown procedure and the rescindment of all applicable prisoner rights under the Patriot Act."

There was a long pause while Phil listened carefully to May's reaction.

"Yes, Agent May, I am certain . . . I know we were taught at the academy that there technically is no such thing as a Level Nine. Yes, this is a Level Nine . . . I am almost one-hundred percent certain, anyway. Yes, I'm willing to bet the integrity of everyone in this agency on that assumption. . . Melinda!" he said sharply. "Just do it!" Then he took a breath and softened his tone. "Declare a Level Nine. I know what I'm doing." Then he turned to Natasha. "Dear God, I hope I know what I'm doing," he muttered.

*.***.*

The voice came again after about two day's reprieve. "Hello, Vermin," it wheedled. "Have you been considering my bargain?" Its soothing resonance did nothing to quell the dread that its unwanted presence brought to the surface.

The rat-like man shivered in the consuming darkness. "You know my terms," he mumbled gruffly. "Blackout is not part of the deal."

"Of course," the voice sighed. "Although I do regret that I cannot convince you otherwise."

Vermin sniffed the air around him to try to discern a living presence, but all he could detect was a faint odor which was not unlike electricity. "So, who are you then?" he demanded, his words terse. "I think I should at least be allowed to know who I'm considering whoring myself out to."

The voice laughed in response. "A fair condition, indeed," it chortled. Then there was an eerie luminescence which grew like a wave, exposing the form of the being he addressed from the head downwards. Vermin shielded his light-sensitive eyes from the overpowering glow, and when it faded to a faint glimmer he was able to look upon his tormentor in full.

The first thing that Vermin surmised was that his voice was complementary to his appearance: he appeared young and graceful, with well-kept hair and an unblemished complexion. He was dressed in dark, close-fitting apparel which all but disappeared in the gloom that surrounded him, and he looked human, of European descent, with delicate bone structure and fair skin. Yet it was his eyes which revealed him - he was thinking, always thinking, Vermin noted, and probably balancing several possibilities at any one time. Duplicitous, he snorted - a liar. "What do you want with me, then?" the rodent-man growled. "You must have powerful friends, and so I am too weak a specimen by your standards to be of any use to you. What can I offer you that you don't already have?"

"It is not what you can offer me, Vermin," the man replied smoothly, "but, rather, what I can offer you."

Vermin assessed the interloper carefully once more, reading him from the top downwards. The man stood proudly, his legs apart in a fearless stance, and his arms folded before him assertively. His head was cocked slightly to the left, and his alluring smile caused a faint dimple to reveal itself on the corresponding cheek. It should have been a charismatic bearing, one that should have invited his trust unequivocally . . . and yet it was having quite the opposite effect.  
"Then let me save you some breath, my pretty little deceiver," the rat-like creature admonished him. "I have been crushed beneath the wheels of the plans of others more times than I can count. There is nothing that you ply me with that will make me trust you."

"You are not mistaken," the man confessed. "I cannot make you trust me, nor do I imply that you even should. I can only ask you to consider that things are not always what they seem." With these words, he bowed his head, and the ghostly radiance swept over him again, only to leave his appearance greatly changed. Now the man looked more haggard, his hair long and dishevelled, and his form was not only thin but gaunt. Even his clothing was tattered and worn at the edges, and he bore bruises, cuts, and open sores upon most of his visible flesh. His eyes seemed hollow - dead, in fact - their gaze empty and unseeing, and his mouth was twisted in a caustic smile. He was terrible and yet pitiable at the same time. "Do you know me now?"

Vermin nodded wordlessly, startled by his ghastly appearance in spite of himself. "Not by my own eyes, but from a description," he said finally. "You are Kaal." His tone was neutral as he said this, and no prejudice seemed to be implied.

The figure nodded solemnly, and then allowed his image to shift once again, this time into an aspect that was somewhere between the two - a blend of both damaged and dignified. Vermin cracked an approving but minimal smile. "Does it please you more to see me as I really am?" Kaal asked with a note of provocation.

"I am not a man who is impressed by grandeur," Vermin huffed. "I used to live in the sewers of New York, after all."

"Which is why I believe you will want to hear me out," Kaal continued, his intonation more realistic and less seductive than it had been in his first manifestation. "For what I intend to offer you is neither wealth nor power but that which you desire most: your freedom."

The rat-man perked up upon hearing these words, but he still did not seem fully convinced.  
"I can promise you that when the terms of your service have been fulfilled you will be beholden to no one but yourself; you will never have to bend to the will of another in order to survive. You will never grovel nor cower beneath the maltreatment of another being so long as you live," Kaal assured him.

The chained man laughed mockingly. "You cannot promise me that," he sneered. "No one can promise such things to another. It's absurd!"

The sorcerer smiled wrily in return. "I have often been told that I do not know my own limitations," he teased. "However, in this case, I am confident that I can honor this pledge to the extent that any being could be capable. In fact, I will go a bit further and throw in your dear friend, Mr. Blackout's well-being, as well."

Now Vermin seemed even more incredulous. "I don't believe that," he challenged the man. "Why would you offer to free the person you've been trying to persuade me to help you kill?"

"I'm _not_ proposing to free him, actually," Kaal mused. "I'm only promising that I will not harm him so long as you are living."

"I sense a trick, deceiver," Vermin replied, "but I am still willing to listen to your foul words because I have little else to do here, other than rot. However, I would not lay your hopes upon my involvement."

"Oh?" the sorcerer taunted, those expressive eyes darkening with a foreboding chill. "Then let's explore your options, shall we?" He moved towards the restrained creature on the bunk with a step which was agile and confident. "You can sit here and continue to _rot _," he said, clenching a fist of his gloved hand to emphasize the point, "while I roam the outside world, posing an ominous threat to your only friend . . . " He stopped a few paces from the bedside and began to tap his chin as if considering the circumstances very carefully. "_Or_," he smiled, allowing those cruel lips to form a sinister grin which bared most of his perfect teeth, "you can wager what is left of your miserable life on a chance to free yourself and secure the life of your - ahem - friend, such as he is. Even if it is only for a time."

Vermin chuckled mirthlessly. "You are aware of the irony, of course, that you are vowing to free me from being used by others by using me yourself?"

That bleak smile was still draped across his face. "Oh, absolutely," he admitted. "However, I believe the result justifies the transgression that I will commit in achieving it."

"But why do you even care? Why should it matter to you if I languish here in darkness forever? " the rat-man challenged him.

"Because I know what it is to be exploited for the gain of others," Kaal spoke, his hand clasped partially over his mouth as though he seemed to remember these iniquities all too well. "And to be broken in the service of those who prosper while you bleed."

This revelation seemed to give Vermin pause. His features grew austere, and he hung his head in abject agony. "But I still don't understand why," he sighed. "Why save me? My hands are strong, but my mind - my mind is feeble. It is a shade of what it once was." He raised his head to look upon the sorcerer again, and this time he was met with a sympathetic smile.

Kaal slipped two fingers beneath the trembling creature's chin and tilted it upwards, firmly but without hostility, and forced him to meet his eyes; Vermin was astonished to actually feel the press of a hand when he knew no living being could possibly be standing before him. "Because you are not the fool they think you to be," the sorcerer murmured.

This comment finally caused the prisoner to choke out a sob, which he caught obstinately before it could amplify into any further show of vulnerability. "But I am not the genius I once was," Vermin confided weakly.

"No," Kaal conceded, reaching for his hand and then clasping it firmly. "And yet now you are so much more."


End file.
